


Sam's Lullaby

by the_beating_of_her_wings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Bottom Sam, Case Fic, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Top Dean, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 64,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5021521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_beating_of_her_wings/pseuds/the_beating_of_her_wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean arrive in Astrid, OH to investigate locals who are dying in their sleep with no explanation. In the midst of their investigation the boys struggle with their true feelings for each other, while Sam struggles with the aftermath of his time in Hell.  The case is harming Sam, causing him to doubt reality,  but he'll do anything to stop it. And Dean will do anything to keep the wall in Sam's mind whole, and keep him safe from harm. The only problem is, Sam seems to be the only one who can stop the monster and save the town.  Can the Winchesters solve the case, and save their relationship before it’s too late?<br/>(@Lady_Huntress67)</p><p>You know that feeling you get when you wake up from a nightmare and you just can't shake it?  Imagine now if that dream was recurring and not a dream at all but a memory. Now imagine that you're Sam Winchester and that nightmare is the time you spent in the cage with Lucifer.  Can the Winchesters figure out what's causing the people of Astrid to die in their sleep, while trying to come to terms with their own complicated relationship? Or will whatever is haunting this little Ohio town get the best of Sam, despite Dean's efforts to protect him from himself.<br/>(@dalildevil)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thank you to my friends @Lady_Huntress67 & @dalildevil for all their help, encouragement, and the above descriptions
> 
> I was in a pretty dark place when I started writing this so mind the tags, it gets bad. It's long in my notes, and I'll post new chapters frequently.  
> This is my first fic, so please be gentle with me...

Sam became self aware the moment his fist came down and met Dean’s face with a heavy thud, coaxing a deep crunch from his skull as his eye socket fractured. Dean’s face was a wet mess blood and swelling, a sadist’s work of art, so ruined he didn’t even look like Dean anymore. He held onto Sam with all the strength he had left, weakening but fierce, staring up at him with one bloodied green eye. His battered lips were moving and for a moment Sam was hypnotized by them. Locked away in his own meat Sam couldn’t hear anything but he knew Dean’s expression so well, an expression he’d seen his entire life, the unwavering devotion in his still open eye, the rhythmic motion of his lips, and the head-clearing strength of his grip. Sam knew Dean could see him. He was looking past the violence his body was unleashing, past Lucifer, and right at Sam. Dean continued to recite some version of it, and although Sam couldn’t hear his voice he remembered the words.

 _Sam’s Lullaby._ Dean had been soothing Sam with his words for so long neither of them could remember the first time. He’d whispered his lullaby for Sam to bring him back from the brink of fear and rage, and once tried to use it to bring him back from death. They had been the first words Dean had spoken in months after their mother’s violent death. Baby Sam and 5 year old Dean, left home alone in a cheap motel room overnight while dad fought his demons by fighting monsters. Dean was so tired of chasing a baby around and being hungry and scared. He filled Sam’s bottle with the last sip of milk and warm water because it’s all they had and told him to just go away. Sam stared at Dean with this lost puppy face and Dean just wanted to shove him. He was a stupid baby and didn’t understand anything. He didn’t understand Mommy was gone forever, she’d been on fire, Dean had seen her over Daddy’s shoulder that night and he still heard her screams in his sleep. Home was gone forever, and Daddy was gone most of the time. Maybe if Sam was gone Daddy would come back and Dean could just watch cartoons and not have to take care of a stupid baby. He was so angry and so afraid of everything but he had to take care of Sam, he had to be strong and brave for Sam and he just couldn’t do it right now. He gritted his teeth, pushed Baby Sam up into the messy bed, stuck his bottle in his mouth and told him to go to sleep. Baby Sam reached for Dean but he stomped away and sat on the floor in front of the TV, tense and shaking, frustrated with a situation no child should be in. _I hate you, Sam,_ Dean thought, _Just go away like everything else._ An hour later there had been a hard thump followed by the distraught wail of a hurt baby. Dean sprang to his feet and ran for the bed, fueled by panic, and found Sam face down on the floor, a heart wrenching cry pouring out of him. “Sammy!” Dean cried, his first word in he didn’t know how long. Sam rolled face up and reached for Dean, breath hitching between cries, a swell of purple blue across his forehead. Dean scooped him up in his arms, cradling his wailing brother, rocking him more expertly now than he had the night he’d carried him out of their burning house. “Sammy, it’s ok. I got you,” he said, his little voice trembling, as he showered Baby Sam’s face with tiny kisses. “I got you. You’re gonna be ok. I’ll never ever let anything happen to you. I love you. I’ll never go away. It’s ok it’s ok.” The words varied over the years but the lullaby remained the same. The last part, when Sam had been murdered and died I Dean’s arms, had changed to “I will tear this fucking world apart until you come back to me. Come back!”

Sam got Dean’s message, loud and clear. Everything was wrong at this moment, but Dean had his back, and would die at his hands to prove it. Sam was still beating his brother to death. Slowly. One hard blow at a time. Fueled by his own rage woven together with Lucifer’s madness he hit Dean again and again, feeling each impact and the damage he inflicted with a heightened intensity like Dean’s agony was playing on his own raw nerves. His awareness grew exponentially. Dean. Impala. Toy Soldier. Time slowed to a crawl as Sam’s life swirled around him, memories rushing forward all at once. Childhood, adulthood, hunts, lovers, funny movies, decent meals. Dean. Always Dean. He looked up at Sam with that one green eye, the other long since swollen shut, and all the pieces fell into place. Sam’s vision cleared and there was nothing left but Dean. Dean picking him up off the floor, Dean singing to him, Dean holding him closer than the mother he couldn’t quite remember on stormy nights, Dean throwing himself between Sam and dad when things got ugly, Dean suturing up Sam’s first serious hunting injury, the smell of Dean’s sweat when they ran for their lives, the sound of Dean’s cries as Sam died in his arms, the glisten of Dean’s tears as he watched helplessly over dad’s should when Sam said his brutal goodbyes, the taste of Dean in his mouth…

 _Get out,_ Sam hissed.

A low, growling laugh snaked its way through the darkness in Sam.

 _Get out, now,_ Sam growled back.

 _No, thank you,_ Lucifer cooed back. _You invited me in. You submitted yourself to me. You belong to me. Now, stop distracting me, I’m killing your brother._

Sam realized Dean was no longer speaking because he couldn’t breathe enough, most likely because of a collapsed lung, impaled by spears of broken ribs, but he still looked up into Sam, the sun glittering gold across the brilliant green of his eye, a beacon in the dark. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Sam had said yes to Lucifer, offered himself as a sacrifice to save the world with Dean safe and sound in it. He would not murder his own brother and then destroy the world.

 _Last chance,_ he said into the darkness that was Lucifer. He felt heat growing deep in his soul, the lightning harbinger of a Midwest summer storm, something more powerful than he’d felt even during the height of his demon bloodlust, something deeper and stronger than the power he’d used to kill Lilith. _You’re no longer welcome here._

 _Oh, Sam_ , Lucifer purred like a cat on the verge of attacking the hand that stroked it. _Shut up and lie back down like a good dog. Don’t worry about Dean, he’ll stop crying in a few minutes, I promise._

Thunder rolled through Sam. Storm clouds of rage gathered, slow, cyclonic, menacing.

_You’ll see him again. When Hell rises he’ll rise with it. Or did you forget he was one of us? How easily he rolled over for a belly-rub from the Devil?_

A power Sam had never been aware of rose within the storm as the cloud spun faster. In the world outside the temperature dropped and the next blow to Dean was at half the strength. Lucifer squirmed within Sam, focused only on controlling his vessel, attempting to violate every part of Sam with his repulsive touch and foul words, his voice a dirty whisper all around Sam.

 _Azazel polluted you as a baby as part of a bigger plan, but Dean, he was born polluted. Just a little, just enough. Funny side effect of being the first child Daddy fathered after being killed and resurrected by a demon. He can run from it all he wants, but in the end his eyes will be as black as that little stain on his soul. That’s how he broke the first seal. That’s how he made the choice to stop being cut and start cutting. It’s hard to be a righteous man when you have a hell bound heart. Sometimes I think I chose the wrong vessel. Dean wouldn’t fight like this. He’d gladly be ridden by the Devil. But_ , Lucifer said as Sam’s meatsuit rose up to his full height and looked down approvingly on himself. _Go big or go home._

The harrowing super cell storm in him broke, raining fury and enveloping Lucifer, eroding his grip, shoving him down deep in the lightning swollen clouds. “Dean!” Sam cried, fighting for control, refusing to hit him again. “Dean, it’s ok.” _I got you. You’re gonna be ok. I’ll never let anything happen to you. I love you. I’ll never go away. It’s ok it’s ok._

Lucifer clawed his way back up and Sam struck him back down. He couldn’t hold him back much longer. From the corner of his eye he saw Michael, wearing Adam like an ill-fitting suit, turn to look at him, the realization of what was happening clear in his blue eyes.

_Dean, it’s ok. I got you. You’re gonna be ok. I’ll never let anything happen to you. I have to go away. I love you. It’s ok it’s ok._

Lucifer’s enraged scream boiled up from inside Sam. Without time to say goodbye, Sam grabbed Michael and threw them both into the gaping mouth of Hell, locking them away in the Cage for eternity.


	2. Chapter 2

The fall seemed to be eternal. Pulling, stretching, dissociating. Sam became less aware of himself, his physical self, and became more aware of the pain. A white-hot agony filled his senses, creeping into every nook and cranny of his being, burning, violating. He could no longer tell his foot from his chest. He felt only pain. It burned brighter and hotter, engulfing him, chewing him up and swallowing him. He was blinded and deafened. He wanted to scream, needed to scream, more than anything in that moment but he no longer had a mouth or lungs.

He barely remembered dying the first time, but he knew it wasn’t like this. It had been like drowning in cool, dark water, pulling him gently down into oblivion. He had felt Dean’s arms around him, holding him up, begging him to stay and he had known he was safe. Even slipping away into the black embrace of Death he knew he was safe because Dean was there. Dean had him. Dean loved him. It was ok.

This death felt more like being hurled into the sun. He felt naked and terrified, more alone than he had ever been, and Dean wasn’t there this time. He had never been more scared.

The searing pain continued to work its black magic, stripping Sam down layer by layer, burning away his skin until he was raw tissue and bare nerves, then burning away muscle and his sanity. His only functioning sense was touch, so much hypersensitive touch, while the rest of his senses remained in a vacuum. The scorching void swallowed him whole and digested him, breaking him down into primal feelings, ripping him apart on his journey down Hell’s rabbit hole, his mind coming undone before he hit the ground. Everything Sam was, had ever been or ever would be, floated away like embers from a fire, leaving only the ghost of whispers behind. Sam was smoke in the wind. Sam was no more.

Sam hit the floor with a solid thud. What the fuck? He’d been falling forever, unraveling, and then nothing. Now he was sprawled on a solid floor, cold to the touch, dank, smooth like water worn rock. It was dark, this place featureless and without clear boundaries. It could have been an enormous cave or a tiny shed. A dim circle of light seemed to shine from nowhere and encircle Sam. It was cold enough he could see his own breath.

Sam checked himself for injuries and found none, not a single bruise or sore spot. He was fully clothed and didn’t have any blood on his hands. His own or… anyone else’s. His head felt clear. He felt great, in fact, better than he had in a long time. It was eerie. Even the background aches from old injuries were gone. He rolled up his sleeves and checked for scars. Nothing. It was like fresh skin. He quickly pulled up his shirt, running his hand over his bare, smooth skin, not finding a single scar… or ink. _Shit._ His anti-possession tattoo was gone, leaving him vulnerable to attack. Leaving those around him vulnerable to attack. He was a big man, dangerous on his own, even more so when being ridden hard by some hell spawn. He had almost raped Jo while possessed by Meg. That bitch had left him wide awake for that part, let him feel Jo’s tiny body crushed under his against the bar, hear the panic in her voice when she felt his thick, hot erection straining against his jeans to get to her. Meg let Sam get a good taste of Jo, licking her throat with his tongue while tying her up with his hands, bruising her with his hands, threatening her with his throbbing cock while she stalked around Jo and asked questions with his voice. Jo had never trusted him after that, never looked at him the same, never let him within arm’s reach. It broke his heart.

Any stinking hell spawn could jump him now, and make him do whatever they wanted, anything on Hell’s menu of sick, twisted shit, and let him sit there wide awake and watch helplessly. Driver picks the atrocity, shotgun shuts his cakehole. _Fuck_. Waves of panic rolled up from his gut, each larger than the last. He searched his pockets for anything useful, an amulet, a knife, a pen, anything, but his pockets were empty.

A sound in the distance caught his attention. He has to strain to make it out at first, but it was there, a high pitched tone, almost outside his range of hearing, but steadily increasing in volume. It started like the background hum of electronics until the tone distinguished itself, sharp, high, capable of cleaving skulls if it got loud enough. _Fucking angels._ They were coming for him. The sound of their true voices circled the darkness. Sam stripped down to his t-shirt, ripped the zipper from his jacket, and began dragging the teeth against the inside of his forearm, raking it over again and again, tearing his skin open, tapping an inkwell of blood. His arm opened and blood welled up in a thick spring. He dipped his fingers in it and began marking himself, drawing every angel-warding symbol he could remember on his rippled belly, working quickly, trying to recall the details of each symbol without his references. The screaming of the archangels intensified. Sam fell to his knees, his bones and viscera vibrating with the frequency, his ears bleeding. Flashes of blinding white light exploded over head as Lucifer and Michael descended to the cage floor in a violent tangle. They screamed at each other, their angelic voices like rending metal, locked in their ancient battle to the death. Sam vomited blood, his hands clamped over his ears useless as his eardrums ruptured. He covered his eyes and could see the bones of his arms through his clenched eyelids, illuminated but the savage light of the angels. Somehow through the skull rattling sound he heard Adam crying out for him. Sam tried to call back but his voice was lost in the thunder of the battle. The frequency of the angels’ voices laid siege to Sam’s brain. It shook with an unearthly force. His arms fell away from his eyes and they burned away in his skull under the glare of angelic light, his hearing already gone. He vomited more blood, his nose and ears bled profusely, his brain churned down to a thick, sticky liquid, dripping from his empty eye sockets as he fell to the ground. The war of the archangels raged on around Sam’s dead body, Adam’s dead body not far from him.

Sam woke in semi-darkness, lying in the glare of a spotlight in an otherwise dark space. He was cold, shivering, disoriented and weak. Something felt wrong, very wrong. Living the life of a hunter, he’d been drugged or knocked out on more than one occasion, waking in strange places, often bound and gagged. Just another day at the office. But this felt off somehow. He checked himself for injuries, quickly evaluating himself, but found nothing. He looked at his hands, expecting to see blood, Dean’s blood, but they were clean. Too clean. His heavily scarred knuckles were smooth and flawless. Like fresh skin. Déjà vu breathed down the back of his neck. He shivered, pulled up his shirt, and found his sleek torso looked more like a cover boy for a men’s fitness magazine than a man who’d been stabbed, shot, and mauled more times than he could count. Even his appendectomy scar was gone. He pulled his shirt up higher, _Fuck._ His anti-possession tattoo was gone too. He was reborn in Hell, silky and perfect, as beautiful on the outside as he felt he was ugly on the inside. He checked his pockets for weapons or amulets. Empty. _Fuck._

Sam decided to search his surroundings, but stumbled instead of walking. He felt weak, drained, running on fumes. He was hungry. Very hungry. _Starving._ Another wave of dizziness washed over him, and he fell to one knee. He willed himself to get up, made it a few more steps, stumbled again. He had no strength left. And he was cold, so very cold, colder than he’d even been on any one of the many nights they’d spent without heat or proper shelter. He wrapped his arms around himself. On all those freezing cold nights Dean had been there to keep him warm, snuggled up close, wrapped around little Sam like a human blanket. Too cold to move and weak with hunger, Sam imagined this is more like what his life might have been without Dean. Dean protected him from the horrors of their life on the road, children of a grief-mad hunter who left them to fend for themselves for days or weeks at a time, for as long as he could. Dean made sure Sam was warm and fed, often starving himself so Sam could eat, even stealing food when he had to. He would wrap Sam up in all the blankets to keep him warm, even if it meant a long sleepless night of shivering. Sometimes they huddled together under their meager blankets on the worst nights, sharing body heat and comfort, until one night they’d shared more than that. _No_. Sam pushed that train of thought far away, pushed it down deep. He understood he was in Hell now. This crippling feeling, the pain of cold and hunger, meant he was far from Dean. His mouth was dry too, his tongue thick, his lips cracked. Thirst. He was a wreck of deprivation, all swimmy-headed and unable to walk straight. Exhaustion crept in next, blurring his vision, confusing him, tricking him into staggering in circles instead of actively investigating his surroundings. Sam wanted to sit down, just conserve some energy, not make his heart beat so hard to get the blood to his head. He needed to sit, just for a minute, just to get his bearings. He stumbled and fell, landing hard on all fours. He swayed, trying to catch his balance, struggling to stay upright.

The perfect silence was suddenly broken by the sound of gunfire. Sam struggled to his feet, his head warning him he may pass out at any minute. More shots, screaming, shouting. A single syllable, deeply voiced, repeated desperately.

“Sam!”

Sam turned toward the voice, weak and woozy on his feet. He saw a muzzle flash through the dark and heard the shot. Something fell behind him, out of his line of sight, some looming threat he hadn’t noticed creeping up on him.

“Sam!” Dean called, running toward Sam in his eerie circle of light. Sam wobbled, reached out for his brother, gasping his name with a weak breath. Dean tucked his pistol away and grabbed Sam’s arms to steady him. “Sammy, you ok?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I’m not hurt,” he said breathlessly, still wobbling like a newborn foal. The perfect storm of starvation, dehydration, and exhaustion fucked with him so badly he wished he could just sleep for a while and escape Hell later. Dean was here now so he was safe. He would be ok.

“Jesus, Sam, you’re like a drunk freshman on spring break. Can you walk?”

“Yeah,” Sam said through the haze, gripping Dean’s arms for support, shaking his head to clear it but it only worsened the effects. How long had he been down here? When was the last time he’d eaten, slept, or had anything to drink? He tried to walk, to follow Dean out of this place and get topside before he died down here, but his knees buckled. Dean held him tight and eased him down to the floor on his hands and knees, whispering, “Easy, easy,” as they went down. Sam coughed, rough and dry. He needed water.

Dean ran his hands all over Sam, patting him down at first, checking for injuries, then slipped them up under his shirt, sliding his rough, calloused hands across Sam’s fresh new flesh.

“I’m fine,” he coughed. “Stop.”

“I’m gonna take care of you, Sammy,” Dean said softly, pushing Sam’s shirts up to his shoulders, stroking his fingertips down Sam’s spine. Sam felt drugged. He was so fucking tired and hungry. Dean had pushed his shirts up and his skin was freezing where it was exposed to the cold, damp air. He tried to protest but only mumbled. Dean moved behind him, groping his hips and thighs. Sam started to fall onto his belly but Dean caught him, one arm hooked around his waist, and hoisted him back up. With his free hand Dean quickly unbuttoned and unzipped Sam’s jeans, shoving them down to his knees.

“Dean, what… stop….”

“I’m gonna take care of you, Sammy,” Dean grunted, and Sam heard unzipping. “The way you want to be taken care of.”

“No…” Sam said, his voice a frail rasp. He heard Dean spit. He was too weak to move away, Dean was too strong, holding him close with a vicious grip. Before Sam could protest again Dean was pushing into him. He was big, forceful, too much too fast. Sam screamed. Dean shoved his face into the icy floor and began to fuck him harder. Sam cried out again, feeling himself tearing, split wide open by Dean’s thick, ruthless cock. Dean grabbed a handful of Sam’s hair and yanked his head back.

“This is what you want. What you’ve always wanted,” Dean growled, his voice low and sex colored.

“Nooo,” Sam sobbed. “Dean, _please_ , stop.”

Dean responded to Sam’s pleas by moving the hand he held Sam’s hips up with to wrap around his throat, choking him while raping him, his grip tightening with each thrust, relaxing each time he pulled back, sliding out just to the swollen head of his cock, then ramming the whole length back in until his hips collided with Sam’s ass with a wet slap of spit and blood on skin. Sam lost all his words and just screamed, a hurt animal being eaten alive.

A figure moved swiftly from the shadows and kicked Dean in the face, hard enough to knock him back on his ass. Sam collapsed, gasping for air. Blinded by gut-splitting agony he hadn't seen who had saved him but he recognized the voice as soon as he spoke.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Lucifer spat.

“Whatever the fuck I want, brother,” Michael growled back with Dean’s voice. “This piece of shit is the reason I’m locked up in this stinking fuckhole for eternity or until some other idiot opens the cage.” Michael kicked Sam in the belly for emphasis. Sam curled up in the fetal position, blood running out of his ass and mouth. He lost track of the conversation as the angels shouted at each other in Enochian and fought each other like rabid dogs, their eyes flaring blue white, their enormous wings unfurled and thrashing. Sam covered his head, unsure if he should wish for survival or death. It didn’t matter, no one who could help him would hear him down here anyway.

The fight finally subsided. Michael skulked away into the shadows to lick his wounds, no longer dressed up like Dean but like Adam, head hung low, bloodied wings dragging limp behind him.

Lucifer knelt next to Sam. “Sorry about that,” he said gently. “Typical brother. Sneaking into my room to play with my new toy because he broke his own already. Or hadn’t you noticed that Adam stopped screaming a few years ago?” He moved his hand toward Sam’s face. Sam recoiled, having been hurt enough for one day, his eyes still burning with tears. “Oh, Sam. I’m not going to hurt you. You know I wouldn’t lie to you. When I’m ready to hurt you I’ll tell you. Right now I just want to help you.” He touched two icy cold but velvety soft fingers to Sam’s forehead, his eyes glowing a soft blue, and Sam felt his injuries undone, not just healed, but erased.

“Tell me you love me,” Lucifer pouted.

Sam narrowed his eyes. There was no way in hell he was going to say, “I love Luci.” Never going to happen. He pushed himself back up to his knees and sat back on his feet. The room spun lightly and his eyes fluttered.

“Oh, yes. A few fun facts about Hell, Sammy. It’s all about suffering here, suffering without end. You are starving to death, Sam, but you’ll never die. Nor will you ever die from the thirst that’s killing you. It's cold, you'll never be warm again, ever. You’re so tired you can’t keep your eyes open, but the moment you close them they’ll just open again. There is no sleep in Hell. We have our nightmares while we’re awake.” Lucifer flashed his most adorable smile. “Now, let’s get you out of those clothes and have some fun, shall we?”


	3. Chapter 3

Sam’s refusal to kneel irritated Lucifer, and quickly became the subject of whispers among the damned. Starving and too exhausted to stand, he continued to stand anyway, swaying on wobbly legs, sneering at the fallen angel with every bit of muscle control he had left.

“Kneel,” instructed Lucifer.

“Fuck you,” Sam replied.

Lucifer snapped his fingers, summoning meat hooks from the darkness, smiling and quite satisfied as they dug into Sam’s already abused flesh, hooking through his shoulders and ribs, sinking deep into the meat of his thighs and calves. One barbed, rusty hook appeared from behind him, stroking his right flank lustily before burying itself in his side, tugging just enough to pull him off balance.

“Down, boy.”

Sam fell to his knees, spilling blood and sharp cries, struggling against the hooks and chains that snatched him back and forth in every direction. He fought for his life now, unaware a crowd had gathered, peeping through the holes in the cage walls, the leering damned and demons alike watching, some touching themselves, all enjoying the horror show of a soul abused by Lucifer himself. The hooks began to tease Sam apart, rending flesh and separating joints, digging deeper and pulling harder.

“I am going to hurt you now,” Lucifer said, his tone calm as ever.

The chains tightened, Sam howled, his voice nearly gone by now, his throat raw from screaming. Somehow he found the strength to continue struggling. He grunted and fought and finally heard the snap of Lucifer’s fingers. His mind exploded with bloody red pain as the hooks suddenly rendered his body to wet lifeless shreds.

Sam awoke with a sudden gasp. He was on his hands and knees, naked, shivering with cold. He was weak and hungry, and so terribly thirsty. He needed water, and he needed it now. His lips were split and his head was pounding. He was illuminated in a circle of bright, clear light. Everything else was darkness, not a room with the lights out darkness, but deep space darkness. Cold, empty darkness.

Lucifer appeared before him, as beautiful as ever, glowing in the cold light. He held in his hands what looked like a dog collar, black leather with a vicious halo of metal spikes, some short and blunt, others long and needle-like, lining the inside. He secured it around Sam’s neck, his touch gentle but cold as a morgue. The spikes pushed into Sam’s skin, an uncomfortable pressure on his throat, threatening penetration. He swallowed hard.

Lucifer summoned a glittering chain from the floor under, hooked it to the collar, tightened the chain with a graceful wave of his elegant fingers until it was too short, leaving Sam to strain to keep his head up, the spikes taking hold in the back of his neck.

“I suggest you stay down this time,” Lucifer purred, stroking Sam’s face. The collar kept Sam from pulling away, but his contempt for the Devil shown clearly in his eyes, green and gold like an autumn morning, and full of rage. Lucifer smiled at this. He really did love Sam’s eyes, so pretty, so wounded, and barely containing his darkness. Just like his brother, and his father. Sam was different, though. He was so much stronger either Dean or John. What fun.

“Do you know what his cage is for?” Lucifer asked, walking in slow, languid circles around Sam, admiring his form, lusting for his suffering. “It’s a prison, built to incarcerate an archangel, Heaven’s most powerful weapon. It was designed as solitary confinement for the worst of the Fallen. I have found flaws in its walls over the millennia, though. Cracks, holes, little places where small things, like human souls or their ruined remains, can squeeze in. Nothing can escape. But things can slip in. I like the company.”

Sam heard a faint rustling behind him. He tried to cock his head enough to narrow down the location of the sounds, their proximity to him. A scraping. A wet dragging. Incoherent whispers.

“I seem to remember you once had a taste for the blood of demons.”

Sam swallowed hard, his heart beginning to beat harder, shivering his chest.

“You drank gallons of blood, Sam. And you killed dozens of them to fuel your addiction. And then, the ones you didn’t drink dry, you tore out of their meat and sent back to Hell, or destroyed. Sadly, that didn’t make you any friends down here.” Lucifer began to back away from Sam. “So many have come to see you, the Great Sam Winchester. Demon killer. Demon _fucker_. The asshole who shut down the Apocalypse.”

The chain at Sam’s throat offered no give, allowed little movement, kept him bound and helpless as the demons began their assault. The first one in line gripped the back of Sam’s neck and shoved his face into the cold, damp floor. Before Sam could react it was already forcing its twisted, spit-slicked cock into him. It fucked him hard and fast, shrieking like a banshee as it came in him. It pulled out with a wet pop, slapped his ass, and stepped away with a thick chuckle. Sam was left gasping in agony.

“The cage will kill them as they try to escape,” Lucifer said matter-of-factly. “But still they come, just for a taste of you.”

Demon after demon mounted and used Sam, each more foul than the last, each attack more violent. Sam’s attempts to fight off each attack grew weaker and weaker. Only choked sobs escaped him now. His gut was a churning witch’s brew of liquefied fire, and he was sure he was hemorrhaging his insides out onto the floor between rapes. The spikes of his collar had worked their way deep into the meat of his neck, a few even piercing his trachea. Through the grip of his agony he suddenly smelled something terrible, as if some dead and rotting thing had awoken and crawled up out of Hell’s sewer.

Lucifer raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. He smirked. Sam saw through his tears that the angel was working his hands in a deliberate pattern. He looked down at the pool of blood under him and saw it moving into strange patterns, swirling, undulating, and realized the angel was writing in his blood, summoning something from the deepest pits of Hell. The demons scurried into the edges of the empty darkness. Sam heard cries from the void as the cage destroyed anything trying to slip back out. He collapsed but never touched the floor, help upright some an unseen force, either from Lucifer or whatever he was calling to with Sam’s blood. Sam was ready to die, he couldn’t take any more, he no longer cared about fighting and just wanted oblivion. His body was too weak to keep going, his mind on the edge of collapse. Why hadn’t Lucifer just destroyed him already, like Michael had done to Adam? How long had he been here? How much longer could he possibly last? And what the fuck was Lucifer conjuring?

The floor rumbled as if in answer. Lucifer squatted down in front of Sam and smiled. “You’re not done yet.” He brushed his fingers over Sam’s bloody, sweat drenched face, and Sam felt his injuries erased, the violence of the demon assault playing through his body in reverse, bones unbreaking, skin untearing.

Sam roared, his rage overshadowing his pain. “Just fucking kill me!”

Lucifer shook his head sadly. “I would never kill you. I love you too much to do that. But I will break you.”

Sam spit. “Fuck if you will,” he growled.

“However long it takes, Sammy, we have all of eternity. You will break for me. And when that day comes and your collar comes off because you no longer need to forced into obedience but hunger for it, when you crawl on your belly over the broken remains of everything you’ve ever cared about to take your place at my feet and beg for my love, when that day comes, and it will, do you know what happens then? I will lift you up and kiss you once, gently, here,” he placed a cold fingertip to the furrowed space between Sam’s eyes. “And you will be restored. You will again be cocky, unbroken Sam. Strong Sam. The Sam who took on the Devil to save the world. And then I will break you again.”

“No!” Sam spat through gritted teeth.

“Yes, it will happen. And it will be magnificent.”

Sam was shaking all over from the constant chill and hunger. He knew something terrible was coming for him and he was more scared than he had ever been, but out there somewhere the world was still turning, and Dean was alive in it, settled down and living a real life if he had any brains left. One hot, humid night, after too many beers and few tears, Dean had told him he’d found his strength during his time in Hell in the knowledge that he had saved Sam’s life. Sam was alive and safe, and Dean wasn’t going to disappoint his little brother by turning into one of those black eyed murdering sons of bitches. Sam knew that strength has only lasted Dean so long, but he didn’t care. He pictured Dean’s face, his smile, his scruffy chin. He pictured Dean’s perfect lips as he whispered his lullaby to Sam, _“I got you. You’re gonna be ok...”_ Dean was alive and could be proud of him. That’s all that mattered.

“Eat me, bitch” Sam growled.

“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? I am _the Devil_ , I can read your mind and taste your soul. You think you can hold on at least as long as Dean did. Congratulations, you’ve been here much longer than he was before he broke and took Alistair’s deal. But let me help you understand something. I am not offering a deal. I will not offer you my implements of torture to avenge your suffering on another soul. You are in this cage with me for fucking eternity and I will use you for my pleasure every day until the end of time. My ecstasy will be breaking you in a thousand different ways. The price you pay for your betrayal is to break for me. And you will break.”


	4. Chapter 4

The floor rumbled again. Sam looked around as well as he could with his neck chained down halfway between his shoulders and the floor, overwhelmed by the stench permeating the dank air, trying to keep his shaking muscles under control. He gripped the chain with both hands and pulled as hard as he could. The chain didn’t give, but the wide leather collar tightened in response, like an aggravated snake with a mind of its own, sinking even the dullest spikes into his flesh. The sensation of strangulation was becoming very real now, and in spite of his rising panic Sam knew even this wouldn’t kill him. He lowered his head to ease his breathing, trying to find even the smallest relief from the constant crush of the collar and the sharp pain of the spikes. He closed his eyes and saw Dean’s face in vivid detail; the dusting of freckles that somehow belied his weariness and the gleam in his eyes that sometimes seemed so damn old. Everything around Sam seemed to slip away quietly as he thought of Dean, his pain easing, his body warming. He could almost smell him. Dean always smelled so good, even dirty and sweaty, but especially when he was wet. Something about the rain on his skin seemed to bring out something so… _Dean_.

His thoughts darkened and he imagined the dangerous look that came over Dean whenever he knew Sam was in danger of being hurt. God damn, but Sam had never seen anything like that in another human being, that look of hellfire unleashed when Dean was afraid for him. He would never forget the first time he saw that face, the first time he knew how much he meant to someone. He had been somewhere between 12 and 13 years old, it was spring break, and as usual he and Dean were cooped up in some shitty no-tell motel, too bored and too restless for their own good. They had to lay low, stay out of sight and keep quite. Dad had learned very early on that abandoning your kids in a motel room for three days with only enough food and diapers for one day meant you’d come home to an empty motel room and a letter from Child Protective Services. Luckily dad was a smooth talker and a good liar. He'd gotten them back from protective custody and then they really went on the run. _Keep Sammy quiet_ was added to Dean’s list of instructions.

Ten years later there they were, pacing the room like caged animals, laying low and staying out of sight. Dad was away on a hunt “too dangerous” to take the boys along so they waited, the TV always on to muffle their voices. The evening news lead with a story about a mauled body found in the woods just two miles from the craphole place they were staying, some poor transient attacked by a bear, please call the Sheriff or Animal Control if you see a bear in the area. The reporter shared a few gory details; The victim’s heart and head were missing, likely eaten. Sam and Dean looked at each other. Last night was a full moon. They had a werewolf right under their noses. Dean winked at Sam. He couldn’t wait to tell dad when he came back. Sam wanted to hunt, just the two of them, the Winchester boys against a monster. Screw dad. Dean tried to talk him out of it but Sam threw a fit. Maybe if they went out and did what they knew how to do, dad would take them along more often and stop fucking leaving them behind. Dean flicked Sam’s lips and told him to watch his mouth, mom wouldn’t like that, and dad would kill them if they went out on their own. Sam resorted to begging because he knew Dean couldn’t resist. So they geared up, waited until dark, and headed out on foot into the woods. They stalked around in the dark, Sam trying to be brave to impress Dean, while Dean was doing the same, both scared to death, neither knowing how scared they should be. The wolf had been tracking them for a while, assessing the danger of these two hunters, quickly realizing the vulnerability of two scared boys. Predators go for the small and weak, and as the smaller of the two, Sam was attacked first. His voiced cracked when he screamed, slammed to the ground under the large monster, its claw slashing the back of his shoulder. Dean unloaded his pistol into the wolf without thinking, without feeling, without hesitation. The silver bullets ended the monster before it could take a breath. Sam watched Dean’s face and for the first time he knew he was loved, he knew he meant the world to someone, that someone would tear the world apart if need be to keep him safe. Dean kicked the wolf off of Sam and quickly checked him for injuries, finding a river of blood on his back. Sam was in too much shock to answer Dean or even cry. Dean threw Sam over his shoulder and ran through the woods until they came out behind the motel. He helped Sam crawl through the bathroom window, quickly following, hoping to not be seen by anyone. If a crying baby brought CPS down on you, two kids covered in blood sneaking into a motel room would likely attract worse. Sam stifled his cries as Dean looked him over. No bites, thank God, but a deep, jagged gash across his right shoulder blade. Fuck. It needed stitches. He’d seen dad do it on himself a couple times. Dean dug through dad’s bags, found the stitch kit and went to work on Sam’s wound, talking softly to him, _it’s ok, I got you, Sammy, you’re ok_. Dean tried not to cry himself, wishing he could take this for Sam, who just sat there trembling and being so very quiet even though it hurt like hell. Dean had found nothing in the med kit to give Sam for pain. Once the suturing was done, sloppy and excruciating, and Dean had applied a clean dressing, Sam collapsed against him. Dean held him tight, rocking him like he was still little, whispering, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_. He helped Sam into clean clothes and they silently agreed that dad wouldn’t know about this.

Dad walked in the door just as Dean was tucking Sam into bed and he _knew_. Probably because Sam had bled badly enough that the room smelled of blood no matter how well Dean had cleaned up, Sam’s face was still pale from shock, his eyes puffy from crying, and Dean had dried blood under his nails. Dad shoved Dean away from Sam so hard hit the wall, then pulled Sam out of bed, checking him over roughly. Sam immediately told dad what had happened, told him it was all his fault, he’d gone after the werewolf himself and Dean had caught up to him and saved his life, don’t be mad at Dean he didn’t do anything wrong. Dad kissed him on the had and told him to go back to bed. Dean looked afraid for his life as dad dragged him out the door to go make sure the monster was dead and the body buried.

Sam waited up until they returned. Dean told a weak story about how the thing wasn’t quite dead and had objected to being buried. Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean, seeing his cheek was flaming red and his lip split.

“Monsters hit hard, Sammy” Dean said with a cocky smile. Sam knew damn well what monster had hit his brother. Under dad's watchful eye Dean tucked Sam back into bed, then took his place on the floor at the foot of the bed, a shotgun for a pillow. Sam watched dad drink himself to sleep in the chair by the door. Once dad was gently snoring Sam grabbed his blanket and pillow and went to Dean on the floor. He slipped his pillow under Dean's head, curled up next to him, and threw the blanket over them both. Only then could he sleep.

Sam wanted Dean here with him now, to hold him and protect him, but he was so glad he wasn’t. He did not want to know what Dean’s face would look like if he knew what was happening to Sam down here. Sam prayed Dean had put up a headstone for him next to mom and dad and then walked away, leaving him dead and buried, believing he was in a better place. He drifted in this sad twilight sleep, half wanting Dean, half wanting to die.

“I know you’re there,” Lucifer said softly, addressing the not quite empty darkness beyond the cage.

“I’ve come for Sam Winchester,” a gruff voice replied.

“Too bad,” Lucifer replied.

“Give me Sam Winchester.”

Lucifer turned to face Castiel. “No. In case you have forgotten, he is mine. He _gave_ himself to me. And then he threw us into this cage, and nothing gets out of here. Ever.”

“I said, give me Sam Winchester,” Castiel growled, his voice dropping to a threatening register.

“What for? What could you possibly need him for? You’re better off without him. Do you really think Dean will open his legs for you if little brother is around?”

Castiel’s eyes flashed blue. “He doesn’t—,”

“Good to know, brother. We are angels, after all. _We don’t fuck animals_.”

“That doesn’t seem to have stopped you.” Castiel looked toward Sam, naked and bloodied, chained to the floor, slowly rocking back and worth, muttering to himself.

“I haven’t laid a hand on him,” Lucifer said innocently.

“Give him to me,” Castiel repeated, his wings suddenly rising up, his eyes blazing white.

“Oh, a threat display?” All six of Lucifer’s wings rose up, angled toward the lesser angel. “Mine’s bigger,” he growled. “Something tiny and pathetic like you can squeeze in here like any demon or mud monkey. If you want Sam, come and get him. Keep in mind that although I don’t fuck little animals, if you step foot in this cage I will do things to you that you cannot imagine. And you will both be destroyed trying to escape. The Cage does not release its prisoners.”

Castiel’s wings lowered, tucking behind him like a dog pinning its ears back. He reassessed the situation, seeing the flaw in his plan. Alarms were already sounding. All of Hell knew there was an angel in the pit. When he had brought Dean out he was with an army of angels who had laid siege to Hell with him. This time he had snuck in alone.

“Go home, Castiel. Seduce your pet human. He will never see his brother again and I’m sure he’ll need to be… consoled.” Lucifer turned his back on Castiel and returned to his summoning work. Castiel vanished in a flurry of wing beats.

Lucifer lifted Sam’s chin with his foot. “No sleep, no dreams, Sammy,” he purred. “Look, you have a visitor.”

Sam didn’t see it at first, but he smelled it and gagged. He’d made a living of digging up and burning bodies, remains in all stages of decay, from old bones to sloppy messes still on the coroner’s table, and nothing had prepared him for this stench. It burned his throat and eyes, a molten cloud that smelled of sun baked road kill and the washed up leftovers of whatever the ocean didn’t digest.

It undulated out of the darkness, a slimy, black mass of unrecognizable flesh stitched together in a vaguely human shape. It had no discernible face, its form changed as it moved, first inching like a snail then gradually walking like a man, it’s gangrenous flesh in constant motion as though it was trying to determine its own anatomy.

“What the hell is that?” Sam gasped.

Lucifer shrugged. “When my Father first cast me into the Pit, it was already here, waiting for me. We don’t even have a name for it. You see, to give something a name is to give it power, and we have a hard enough time controlling it. I like to think of it as an _angel breaker_. He stepped gingerly out of the thing’s way as it bore down on Sam.

“This is a special treat just for you. Dean never even knew about it. Most of the damned don’t. So, enjoy this. You deserve it.”

The thing reached out to Sam with an appendage that began like an arm and become more of a tentacle. Its touch was hot, a sharp contrast to the cold of Hell, and oily. It applied more dripping tentacles to Sam, exploring him, tasting him, squeezing and stroking, pushing and pulling. The thing shuddered, stretching horizontally before finally splitting in two. One half remained in front of Sam, cupping his face, gripping his shoulders, pinching his nipples. The other moved around behind him, plastering an oily appendage between his ass cheeks, pressing against his hole, sliding down to grip his cock. The more Sam struggled the more aroused the things became. The one behind him kicked his legs apart and slipped a greasy tentacle tip, no larger than a finger, into his hole, lapping like tongue, steadily probing deeper. It grew thicker and longer, pushed deeper, filling Sam well beyond his limits. His cries quickly aroused the thing in front of him. It unfurled an appendage that looked like a bloated, rotting cock. It grew more erect with every scream, larger, until it split from the head half way down the shaft. The two heads moved independently, rubbing against each other, growing more bloated. Sam screamed as the thing fucking him burned its way deeper, the sounds choked off as the thing on front shoved its bifurcated cock into his mouth. Sam choked and gagged, clawing at the massive hell spawn cock that was suffocating him. Tears streamed from his eyes. The two things fell into a rhythm, fucking in and out of Sam with a slow, wet beat, suffocating and tearing, the twin cocks pushing deeper until they met somewhere in the middle. The heads slipped around each other, fondling their brothers deep in Sam’s body, coaxing each other to come.

When it was over Sam lay on the cold stone floor, curled in the fetal position, blood and black slime leaking from this mouth and ass, his body covered in sucker-shaped bruises, the piercing wounds in his neck festering. He tried to conjure Dean’s face, to hear his voice, his lullaby, his whispered reassurances that Sam would be ok. It would all be ok.

Lucifer knelt in front of Sam. “Do you hear that? The sound your soul is making? That deep down… _crack_.”

Sam forced himself back upright and spit blood on the floor. “Try harder,” croaked, his voice ragged and thick.

Lucifer lost his patience and kicked Sam in the gut. Sam gasped, but took the blow and remained upright, though still chained on his hands and knees.

“I thought you deserved something special, but now I think I should have just done to you what was done to Dean. He broke like a little China doll, and it didn’t take a hundred years. You should see the things we did to him…”


	5. Chapter 5

Lucifer snapped his fingers and a whole tableau opened around them. Dean’s cries filled Sam’s ears and he saw a restless line of demons, some naked in their meatsuits, others in their twisted true forms, a few already fucking each other as they waited for a turn at Dean.

Sam closed his eyes tight. . He couldn’t watch this, anything but this. He’d gladly take another hundred years of demon rape before he watched Dean suffer like that. He knew the agony and humiliation of being the prize at the end of that line, and now he knew why Dean woke up screaming sometimes.

“Open your eyes, or I’ll tear off your eyelids,” Lucifer said, appearing on his hands and knees, nose to nose with Sam. “I know it’s hard to watch. I know how… deeply you love him. It’s ok. _I fucked my brother, too_ ,” he whispered with a wink.

A high pitched ringing erupted from the dark, the sound of pure rage, manifesting with a blinding blue-white light. Lucifer shouted something back in Enochian, his eyes flaring with angelic light. Sam dropped down and covered his head as Michael and Lucifer tore into each other, burning everything with angel fire. Their voices, like high frequency thunder, were not enough to drown out the sound of Dean’s sobs echoing through the cage. Sam kept his head down and cried like a lost child, hoping the angels would finally kill him and end this once and for all.

The angels fell silent, although the cage still rang with the sounds of Hell outside its walls and the unending soundtrack of Dean’s torture at the hands of demons. One of the angels had defeated the other. Sam quietly hoped it was Michael who had won this round, that he had beaten Lucifer back into the shadows, and would come to end Sam.

Lucifer stroked Sam’s hair and was not at all surprised when Sam cried at his touch. Such a terribly sad sound. He was close to breaking, Lucifer knew. He could feel it. Sam wanted to die but Lucifer wouldn’t allow it. The only way to make it stop was to break and crawl and beg Lucifer for his mercy and love. _Soon_.

“He woke up in hell screaming your name. He would have died that way too, but it’s hard to scream anything when both your lungs have been torn out of your chest. He saw your face, though. Through all the fear and the blood and the stench of his own guts your face was the only thing he thought of. He suffered this for you.”

Sam kept his eyes shut tight, his head down between his bent arms. He wold not watch demons torture Dean until he broke and nearly became one of them.

Lucifer cupped Sam’s face and lifted it from the floor. He kissed each of his eyes, then gently, as though in an act of compassion, used his cold tongue to pull an eyelid between his teeth and tore it away slowly. He repeated this with the other eye. Lucifer smiled at Sam’s helplessness. “Now watch,” he said sternly.

Dean was crushed between demons. One big ugly bastard was hammering him from behind while a diseased looking female rode him from below. The male had one large hand on Dean’s head, pressing him down into the female’s sweaty breast. Tears streamed from Dean’s eyes, his throat so raw from screaming and all the cocks and fingers shoved down it to make anything more than the faintest sob.

“What’s wrong with this picture?” Lucifer asked, sitting cross-legged beside Sam.

Sam knew, he’d seen it right away, and it hurt his heart too much to think about. He kept his mouth shut.

“Come on, Sammy. I know you see it.” He nudged Sam’s shoulder. “Tell me what you see and I won’t make you watch any more.”

Sam held his tongue. He tried to concentrate on the cold, his hunger, his thirst, anything but what he was looking at. The constant assault of demons was hard enough to see, the onslaught of abuse, the perverse things they were doing to Dean. But what broke Sam’s heart was the thing Lucifer most wanted him to see. Dean wasn’t wearing a collar. He wasn’t chained down like Sam, helpless and unable to defend himself. Dean was letting them hold him down.

“He believes he deserves this. Look at him. He just lays there and takes it. He’s doing this for you. He couldn’t protect you from being murdered so he sold his soul and took on an eternity of suffering to save your life. So good of you to throw it away.”

Sam turned toward Lucifer. It was difficult, the cold numbing his extremities, causing his core muscles to shiver violently. Moving without falling was a struggle, but he managed to put himself face to face with the fallen angel.

“Had enough?” Lucifer asked.

Sam responded with an unexpected head butt. With every drop of fight he had left he shot his arm out, grabbed Lucifer by the throat and pulled him in close. Sam straddled him, both frost bitten hands closing around Lucifer’s throat. He squeezed, feeling the firmness of tracheal cartilage give way, crushing it, choking the life out the bastard angel. Sam might suffer here for eternity but he would do so alone.

Lucifer’s eyes bulged and reddened. He began to laugh as he pulled Sam’s hands away from his throat with ease. He rolled them suddenly. He perched on Sam's chest, stretched his weakened arms up over his head and pinned them to the floor.

“I think you need some more work,” Lucifer signed. “I really thought we were done.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re not that lucky,” Lucifer said with a wink. “I think you need some rack time, personally. You know, that’s what broke Dean. He handled a lot, he really did, more ass pounding than most even survive, and then the cutting and the gutting. He even saw right through the glamours. That was one of Alistair’s favorite tricks, glamours, dressing up like someone else. He especially liked to dress up like you when he tore Dean apart. But Dean saw through it every time. Even when he dressed up as your dad and spent the day just telling Dean how worthless he is, how useless, how very disappointing. Dean still pulled through. But the _skinning_ , Sam, oh, the skinning got him.

The tableau changed as Lucifer spoke, offering vignettes of Dean’s suffering in Hell. Now Sam saw the wet red mess of something that could only be recognized as Dean by his voice. “Please…,” he begged. “Stop. Please stop. I’ll do _anything_ just please _make it stop_."

“After he made the choice to torture souls your brother blossomed into a fucking artist. I’ve been in Hell since the beginning, and I have never seen anything like some of sick shit he did. If he was faced with a soul that refused to break under the usual circumstances he got creative. I watched him with one man, a bad man who thought being a man of the cloth made him righteous, a man with perverse appetites that would actually be satisfied by the tide of demon rape. This man refused to break no matter how Dean cut him.”

The horror show continued around them. Sam was unable to look away or close his eyes. He saw Dean soaked in blood, singing happily to himself as he mangled some poor bastard. The visions followed Lucifer’s narration.

“Dean got truly creative with this one. He leapt up onto the rack, licked two fingers, and dug a hole through the man’s ribs. There, you see that? It draws an audience, this sort of demonstration. He dug that hole in the man’s chest, stuck his cock in it, and _fucked his heart_. No one has seen anything like it before Dean or since. What kind of pent up rage does it take to put down the tools of your trade and fuck a man’s heart until he begs for mercy?”

Sam stared in horror as Dean broke a soul in front of him. His blood ran cold, his knees weakened, his body trembled from more than cold and hunger. Dean no longer looked or sounded like Dean. The glorious green of his eyes had dulled. They were muddy now, not yet demonic black, but no longer quite human. His torment engulfed him. He was truly broken and slowly becoming one of Hell’s own. This is why we would never talk to Sam about his time in Hell, why he would get that distant look whenever Sam asked. Dean had to live with the truth of what he had done and become every day. Sam began to cry, remembering all the times he had pressured Dean to just open up and tell him, and now he knew the secret Dean was keeping from him. Watching this Hellbound Dean tearing souls apart with more pleasure than anything on Earth had ever given him, Sam was afraid of him for the first time in his life. He had seen Dean drunk, out of control, and had even been beaten by him more than once, but that could never compare to seeing this Dean.

“Did I just hear another crack?” Lucifer asked.

”That isn’t Dean,” Sam choked.

”It is. He didn’t even know who he was anymore by that point, but I assure you, that is Dean. This is why I think a good skinning will finish you off.”

Sam discovered he could close his eyes again, which he did as he lowered his head. Everything hurt. He was cold and hungry, and so thirsty he could barely talk. The festering wounds in his neck shot pain down to his chest, and he thought he could hear maggots in them, munching away happily. He knew he was on the edge of breaking.

”Wanna see a magic trick?” Lucifer asked.

Sam looked the Devil in the eyes and wanted to choke him again. He pulled himself together, remembering how the fallen angel had nearly beaten his brother to death, how he had planned to destroy the world. Sam understood Lucifer was tormenting him because he had fought back and saved the world. He had saved Dean. That’s all that mattered.

Lucifer snapped his fingers and Sam found himself strapped down to torturer's rack.

“Time,” Lucifer’s voiced echoed from somewhere far away from Sam, “is different in Hell. This is why Hell is eternal even though the universe it not. Prepare your breaking speech, Sam Winchester. You will need it soon.”

Sam struggled to look around. His collar was still tight around his neck and chained down to the rack. He heard approaching footsteps. He tested his bonds quickly and they tightened in response. Panic began to spread through him like molten lead through his veins. Every hair stood up and he began to sweat. When Dean appeared before his eyes he thought for a moment he was saved.

“Dean,” he gasped. “Help me.”

Dean cocked his head, looking at Sam like some side show curiosity. He smiled.

“Dean…”

Dean help up a straight razor, his smile now defiled by a thin river of drool streaming from his mouth. He winked at Sam.

“Dean, please, no…”

Dean made his first incision in Sam’s chest, drawing a steady, shallow line from his sternum to his pubic bone. He repeated the line a few more times, going a little deeper with each pass, cutting down to the muscle so he could cleanly separate Sam’s skin from his body.

“Dean!” Sam shrieked. “Please, no, don’t do this! _Dean, please_!”

Dean stopped his work and regarded Sam carefully. He gently touched Sam’s face, caressing his cheek and jaw, running his thumb softly over Sam’s lips. He cocked his head, narrowing his muddied eyes, recognizing Sam. He ran his thumb over Sam’s lips again, then coaxed his mouth open with it, slipping his thumb inside. Sam, out of his mind with fear and pain, sucked Dean’s thumb, trying to remind Dean of a time when they had been this close, and closer. Dean allowed this until he began to remember. He gripped Sam’s jaw and yanked it open. Before Sam could react Dean had a hold of his tongue, pulled as far as it would stretch out of his mouth.

“You don’t get to call me that,” he hissed. He sliced Sam’s tongue out of mouth and resumed his work as Sam choked on his own blood. Before Dean was halfway done Sam no longer sounded like Sam, or even human at all.

Sam found himself back in the cage. He remained naked and chained to the floor, restored to the point of functioning though far from healed. His body trembled with hunger and exhaustion, his neck throbbed with infection, his mind still replaying his encounter with Dean in a darkened theater in his head.

“I am ready for you,” Lucifer said, his voice like velvet. “Come to me.”

Sam felt the temptation of the fallen angel. Part of him was ready to let go, to crawl to Lucifer’s feet. The part of Sam that was still in control refused to break.

“I’m ready for you to fuck off,” he replied, as sassy as his weakened condition allowed.

Lucifer slapped him. “You will break for me,” he said smoothly, regaining his composure.

“You first, dick.”

Lucifer sat down next to Sam again. He snapped his fingers and another tableau vision appeared before them, this time a dark room. “Let’s see what you’re up to right now, shall we?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure what was happening but he didn’t like it.

“Oh, right, you don’t know. Your friend Castiel has resurrected you. They needed you, they missed you, so they brought you back. Well, not your soul, that much you do know. Just your meat. That’s all they need from you. That great big vicious hunter you are. Castiel left your soul to rot in Hell with me. I’m sure you’re having fun up there. What do you think? Let’s watch the continued adventures and Sam and Dean…”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments. I really had no idea anyone would read this, much less like it. There's lots more to come :)

Dean had been 11 or 12, more grown up than he should have been, but still a boy when he made his first kill. He had already gone on a few short hunts with Dad, just hours at a time instead of Dad’s usual days or weeks so Sammy wouldn’t be left alone. He had puked his guts up the first time they dug up a grave, salted and burned the remains. Finally, after so many times tagging along and being pushed out of the way, his father let (made) him kill a thing, but it was a thing that looked (and screamed and begged for its life) like a person. It looked like the first person Dean could remember besides Uncle Bobby who had treated him like a person instead of Daddy’s little soldier, or worse, Daddy’s baggage. It looked like his 7th grade math teacher. Mr. Crane had shown genuine interest in Dean, told him he was smart enough even though he fell behind (what do you expect, 6 schools in one year…). He told Dean he knew he could do it, he believed in him, and he cared about Dean’s future.

Dad told Dean this was just a trick. Things, monsters, would be nice to lure you in and kill you. Nice was just bait. Caring was a trap. Dean learned a very important lesson that day; anyone who seemed to care about you really just wanted to hurt you (words to live by).

After his father had crippled the thing, he pushed the silver knife into Dean’s small hand.

“Gut the bastard,” he said with a shove.

The monster didn’t try to fight him. It just laid there, palms up and helpless.

“I won’t hurt you, Dean,” it wheezed.

It was still looking at him with those gentle, caring eyes when Dean plunged the knife into its chest. He did so 26 more times, screaming and crying uncontrollably, before Dad pulled him off of the body. They drove back to the motel in silence. Dad dropped him off, told him to wash up, that he smelled like monster guts, and drove back to clean up the mess, dispose of the body.

Sammy was sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with a corner up over his head like a hood, face buried in a book. That boy was always reading, anything he could get his hands on. Dean had taught him to read when he was little and he never stopped. Sammy was so smart. He was going to make something of himself someday. He would grow up to be more than a killer (he deserved that much).

Dean walked right past Sam to the bathroom without even looking at him. He didn’t want to be seen, a crying mess, covered in blood Sam should never know about. _Keep reading, Sammy, just keep your nose in that book, _he thought. He showered with his clothes on, then changed into dirty pj pants and a t-shirt. It seemed like they never had clean laundry. No mom, Dad always gone, Sam and Dean had to lay low so they didn’t get caught and taken away again. Sometimes Dean snuck out at night to wash clothes if the motel they were at had a laundromat and he could find enough change. He was less likely to be seen that way and Sammy would have some clean clothes for school in the morning.__

As clean as he could get but still feeling dirty, Dean came out of the bathroom, hoping Sam hadn’t seen his tears. Sam sat up and opened his arms, blanket corners clutched in his little hands, his book falling to the floor. Dean curled up on the worn sofa and cried into Sammy’s chest until he fell asleep.

Sam hugged him hard, whispering, “I got you, you’re ok,” until long after Dean was out. He never knew exactly what happened but he had a pretty good idea. Sam was smart, very smart, and he’d been sneaking peeks at dad’s journal for months. He knew the truth, but he always let Dean think he was protecting his innocence. It was his own way of protecting Dean since he was too small to protect him from anything else. On nights like this he tried, though, wrapping his small body around Dean, hugging him as hard as he could, and whispering to him the same way Dean did when Sam was hurt or scared. He had nothing else in this world, not a teddy bear or his own bed, but he had Dean, and that’s all he needed.

In the morning Dean woke to a soggy half bowl of cereal on the coffee table.

“I made you breakfast,” Sam said with a proud smile. 

Dean scarfed it down, grateful to have anything in his belly, then teased, “Dude, you only left me half the bowl.”

“It’s all we had.”

“Dammit, Sammy, if it’s all we have that means it’s for you!” Dean tried to keep his voice down, not wanting to catch Dad’s attention as he was hauling their few bags out to the car. Maybe they’d get lucky and he would stop somewhere for breakfast so Sam could eat.

“But I want to take care of you. Because you don’t have a mom.”

Dean choked back instant tears. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a mom, either.”

Sam shrugged. He never really knew his mother and he didn’t know how to miss what he never had. Dean had a picture of himself with mom and Sam would quietly watch him look at it, watch him remember a time when someone cared for him, fed him, tucked him in a night.

“ _You’re_ my mom,” Sam said softly. “You take care of me and I love you, so I made you breakfast.”

Dean had nothing else in this world, not a baseball mitt or his own bed, but he had Sam, and that’s all he needed.

.

.

.

Dean’s heart pounded in his chest, shaking him awake every time he dozed off. His heart was telling him something, his gut was telling him something, even his brain was a nonstop background noise of static and whispers. _Don’t fall asleep, Dean_ , they said. And why the fuck not? He and Sam had finished up a job a couple days ago, they were en route to another solid case (no weird shit), this was one of the nicer rooms they’d gotten in quite a while, and his belly was nice and full. Double bacon cheeseburger, home fries, a slice of apple pie, three quarters of a dinner-sized chicken Caesar salad that Sam didn’t finish (how was he so enormous when he barely ate?), and three beers. Everything a man needs to sleep tight. Only he couldn’t sleep.

He looked comfortable enough, sprawled out on his back, arms tucked behind his head, legs stretched out in a V. A casual observer would see a big healthy man passed out after a full meal and a few drinks. Anyone who could see beneath the skin, however, would see a weary man in the throes of exhaustion, riding an unending wave of anxiety and now insomnia, a man whose every instinct was telling him that something was very wrong, but whose senses were unable to detect what it was. Vague, like mist, it lingered around him, the subtle sense of danger. _Don’t fall asleep, Dean_.

He turned to look at Sam through the inky darkness. He looked peaceful in his bed, asleep on his back, his large body taking up some serious real estate under the blankets, so relaxed he could have been on a postcard. Dean half wished he was awake. Sam would know, he’d know through the quiet and the dark and the space between them. He would know something was wrong and call Dean out on it.

Dean looked back to the ceiling, sure his heart was beating hard enough to physically rock him. He closed his eyes tight, swallowed hard. Adrenaline seeped into his veins, feeding his tension, teasing out his insomnia. Not enough to get him up and pacing but just enough to keep him awake.

He opened his eyes and looked back to Sam. More than anything he wanted to crawl into bed with Sam. He _needed_ to. They had slept together most of the time when they kids. When they were very young they had been inseparable. Dad had handed Sammy to Dean and told him to run. Dean had looked over Dad’s shoulder and saw Mom, bleeding and screaming, pinned to the ceiling, burning to death, and he never wanted to let that baby go. He was unable to talk for a long time after that night, and the first person he spoke to was Sam. Sam cried all night for his mother and the only one who could console him was Dean, and by comforting Sam he consoled himself. So they slept together a lot, especially when it was cold and dark and they’d been left alone for days at a time. Dad once said they looked like a “pile of puppies.” He’d even smiled when he said it, and he smiled so little in those days.

Even as they grew up they sometimes slept together, held each other through the night, when things got to be too much or hurt too badly. Sam was usually the one to crawl into bed with Dean, and Dean always welcomed it. When the world came crashing down around you it was sometimes nice to be a pile of puppies again. Being held by someone who wants you to feel better just doesn’t fucking cut it, even if there is sex or love involved. Being held by someone who understands, not just that you hurt, but how and why, who understands and shares your pain down to the bone, that’s comfort. Sam is the only thing Dean truly loves in this world, and that love is fierce, dark, and unbreakable. Sam feels the same way about Dean, sharing a stronger bond than meets the eye. They were both heavily damaged and broken, but broken into corresponding shapes, a puzzle only they could solve.

Sam more often came to Dean in the night because he more easily acknowledged his fear or pain. Dean had a much harder time admitting his need for comfort. Providing Sam with it was the next best thing. On those nights when Sam would slip into Dean’s bed, throw one of his long legs over Dean’s and bury his face in Dean’s chest, Dean would wrap his arms tight around his brother and hold him close like he had done his whole life. He would kiss the top of his head, talk softly to him like he had always done, and if Sam cried, Dean pretended not to notice.

There had been one night, though, years ago, when it took a strange turn. It had become more than comfort in the cold and dark. It had become a desperate, sweaty need for each other. Dean never knew for sure who started it. They both seemed to stir in the night with an insatiable hunger, right time, wrong thoughts. He knew it was wrong, he never should have done that to Sam, with Sam, and he lost him the next day. He never wanted anything like that to happen again, only he did want it, and both the guilt and want grew once he got Sam back. He couldn’t risk losing Sam again, maybe forever this time if he acted on his thoughts. There had been a few close calls, times when Sam seemed to watch him for too long, or stand too close for too long. Dean’s heart would start to race, his palms sweat, his brain spiral into the badlands. The intensity of Sam’s stare was enough to weaken his knees. Dean had lost control once, put his hands and his mouth on Sam, but he was days from Hell anyway, he thought he’d never see Sam again, so fuck what was right or wrong at that point.

_They were driving down a gravel road at night, too fast in the downpour, shouting at each other, fighting over he can’t even remember what any more. Dean had so little time left before the hounds came and dragged him to Hell and Sam just couldn’t kill himself fast enough to stop it. Why did he have to be so damn stupid? Why couldn’t he just fucking understand? Dean had run out of their burning house with that baby in his arms and never looked back. He couldn’t think of a time when Sam wasn’t his to protect, to carry, to love and die for. Sam had died in his fucking arms and it felt like half his soul was torn out. He couldn’t live without Sam and he was willing to die to have him back, even if he only got a year. He just wanted Sam to live and was gladly going to burn in hell to ensure it. Sam couldn’t stop it, and if he tried, he would die._

_Dean had had enough of this argument. He slammed on the brakes, sliding and kicking up gravel, threw it in park and got out, slamming the door behind him._

_“Fuck you, Sam! Fuck you.”_

_Sam was out of the car and in his face in a second. That’s when Dean hit him, knocking him on his ass. He helped Sam up and hit him again, and this time Sam hit back, hard. They threw a few more punches until they were both well bloodied. Dean grabbed Sam by the front of his shirt and coat. Sam thought for sure Dean was about to head butt him into unconsciousness. Dean’s grip tightened and he kissed Sam, hard and desperate. Sam kissed back, biting Dean’s lower lip, tongue invading his mouth, remembering the taste._

_Dean pushed Sam back to the Impala, slamming him backward onto the hood. He pushed himself between Sam’s legs. Sam arched up hungrily into the kiss, pulling Dean’s jacket off, wrapping his long legs around Dean’s hips. Their tongues entwined, tasting the rain and each other’s blood, their heavy, synchronized breath visible in the cold night air. Sam hand both hands on Dean’s face, pulling him closer. Dean had a handful of Sam’s ass, his other cupping the back of his head. He knew he could tear Sam’s clothes off and have him, right here and now on Baby’s hood, and it would be perfect, the only perfect thing in his fucked up life. One perfect moment before Hell came calling._

_Just as Dean moved his hands to Sam’s belt his phone started ringing. It had to be a job, time to go kill some fucking monster. Sam flinched at the sudden invasion of sound and the moment was lost. Dean pulled away and released Sam from his passionate grip, pushing him away in a storm of frustration, anger, and guilt. He looked up to the crying sky and screamed, then brought his fist down onto the hood where Sam had been writhing under him a moment ago. He re-broke two bones in his hand and left an ugly dent. Fuck it. He had enough time left to fix her up before she was Sammy’s._

_Sam cursed himself for flinching. They had come so close. He wanted Dean so badly right then, all the years of strangled lust flooding to the surface, wanting him more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He wanted Dean on him, in him, all over him on the hood of his car in the driving rain. Sam would have done anything for him. Anything he asked for, anything he wanted, anything to please Dean. But then the fucking phone rang, playing its harsh music and vibrating hard between the dashboard and the windshield right behind Sam’s head. His whole body jerked, an involuntary response to being startled, but he hated himself for it. Dean broke away and threw him to the ground, stood screaming like a madman in the rain, a deep, guttural sound like a raging animal, and drove his fist hard into the car he loved more than most people._

_Dean pulled his shit together, got back in the driver’s seat, and answered the fucking phone. After a beat Sam pulled himself up and got in quietly, still panting and bleeding, staying as close to the door as possible to give Dean as much space as he could to quiet his rage. He wouldn’t look at Dean, but he needed to so badly, needed that connection with his brother, needed him to say it was ok. Sam sucked his lower lip and could still taste Dean. He knew then that he wouldn’t let him die, couldn’t let him die, and be ripped apart and dragged to Hell like some shitbag demon dealer. Sam would do whatever he had to do to stop it. And if he somehow failed he would tear Hell apart with his bare hands to get Dean back. Dean was his, he knew that now, and Hell could not have him._

Dean wanted Sam with him now. Any other night, especially if Sam was asleep, he’d just roll over and think about some busty Asian beauties or what he needed to do for Baby’s upcoming maintenance, or think about some busty Asian beauties doing maintenance on Baby. But not tonight. Too much weird shit had gone down, Every time he closed his eyes he saw Hell and he couldn’t bear the thought that Sam had been in the Pit too, and for so much longer. His anxiety was ramping up, his extremities buzzing, and some goddamn alarm was going off in the back of his brain. Fuck. He couldn’t take another minute alone. He had gotten into bed with Sam before, he knew the routine, try not to wake the sleeping giant but they were so attuned to each other that Sam would be ready for him when he got there. Sometimes he made room, other times he just grabbed Dean by the waist and pulled him close, rolling half on top on him and falling right back asleep.

Dean slipped quietly out of his bed, cleared the distance between their beds in 2 stealthy steps, carefully pulled back Sam’s covers. Sam’s eyes snapped open. Dean froze. Slowly Sam turned his head toward Dean and stared at him with cold, empty eyes. Dean’s heart stopped, his blood turned to ice.

“Hey, Sammy,” he stuttered. “Ya know, usually you snore and fart like a fat trucker. I was just checking to see if you were still with me.” He smiled uncomfortably.

Expressionless, Sam finally turned away to stare at the ceiling, eventually closing his eyes. Dean slowly backed away, returning to his own bed and getting under the covers without ever taking his eyes off Sam. He laid on his right side, facing Sam, eyes still on him. Very slowly he reached his right arm up under his pillow until his hand found and tightly gripped his pistol. He lay there not sleeping, watching Sam not sleep, and prayed silently.

_Cas, you feathered son of a bitch, you better be watching over me tonight. I don’t know what the fuck this thing you dragged out of Hell is, but it isn’t my brother. That isn’t Sam. And so help me, I may have to kill it before it kills me._


	7. Chapter 7

“Dean, no…” Sam’s voice was a ragged whisper. He had so little strength left, so little fight. The damp cold settled deep into his bones as the maggots in his neck wounds ate him alive, hunger and thirst driving him mad, exhaustion playing twisted games with his senses. His ability to think clearly melted and burned away like an old candle. Sam was drifting ever closer to his event horizon. Somehow, knowing Dean was in danger pulled him back from the brink, just enough to keep him from spilling over the edge to his breaking point. Dean should have been somewhere good, somewhere stable. He should have been enjoying food made in a kitchen, watching ball games, mowing the lawn, washing his car in the driveway of his own home. Instead, for some fucked up reason, he was sharing a room with a version of Sam that seemed to have walked straight of a nightmare. Sam understood his soul, his consciousness, was in Hell while his hollow meatsuit was walking around topside. Sam, more than anyone else, including Dean, was keenly aware of the darkness within himself, the classic Winchester rage spiked with demon blood, fueled by daddy issues and a powerful sexual hunger for his own brother. Without his soul to temper that darkness he could be capable of anything. He was very afraid for Dean.

Lucifer laughed darkly. “You see? They have what they need. They don’t want the rest of you. That part belongs to me. You gave yourself to me and they don’t even want you back. It looks like big brother wants something, though, sneaking into bed with you like that. I wonder what it could be that he was looking for. It’s a good thing your empty self scared him off. You’ve seen what he’s capable of. I wouldn’t want that psycho getting into bed with me.” He mimed a shiver.

Lucifer stretched out on the floor next to Sam, looking up at him. “To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to see that. I thought by now Castiel would have your brother bent over the hood over his car, stretched wide and begging for all manner of naughty things. You can’t imagine what an angel-powered meatsuit is capable of. The ecstasy it can inflict… If I were in the habit of fucking little animals like you….” Lucifer vanished from Sam’s side and in the same moment rematerialized in front on him, still stretched out on his back, facing the opposite direction so they were seeing each other face to face upside down. Lucifer stroked Sam’s cheek, ran his soft fingers across his lips. His touch was cold, seductive, charged with something unholy, a warming electrical charge that ignited Sam’s nerve endings. “Oh, Sammy, the first time you felt angel fire burning you from the inside out you would give yourself to me a hundred times over. You’ve endured so much, wouldn’t you just like a taste of Heaven itself?”

The fallen angel glanced down along Sam’s length, smirking when his eyes met the sight of Sam’s swelling cock. Sam looked up as far as his chain would allow, looking to anything other than Lucifer, biting his lip hard to try and stop his body’s reaction to the temptation before him. He tried to remind himself that Dean was in danger somewhere, but the angel was tracing a silky fingertip along the length of his cock, clouding his thoughts.

“Sam,” Lucifer whispered, so quiet Sam _felt_ more than heard him. He looked back down. The angel’s mouth met his. He was gentle, not pushing Sam so much as asking for permission. Sam’s response was hesitant, confused. He couldn’t remember ever have been kissed so tenderly. The devil’s kiss had the same subtle electric sensation as the touch of his fingertips, warming Sam like a sip of red wine on a winter night.

“Come closer,” Lucifer whispered against Sam’s lips, again so quietly Sam felt the words deep in his chest rather than hearing. He shakily lowered himself down onto his elbows, afraid but wanting. Lucifer’s lips parted gently against his own, tongue softly pressing, asking, and Sam opened his mouth, allowing the angel’s tongue to enter. Their tongues caressed each other, touching carefully, tentative like first time lovers.

Lucifer’s kiss bordered on worship, only giving to Sam and never taking, offering warmth and a tender touch Sam had never known. He didn’t push or force himself on Sam, only opened himself to Sam’s desire. It felt so good. Sam delved deeper into the kiss, sensual and slow, losing himself in it, barely conscious of the fact his collar was relaxing its grip on him. Lucifer’s hands met Sam’s, stroked them, asked them, entwined with them. Sam sank a little deeper, awakening to the realization that this is what it felt like to be _loved_.

No one had ever kissed Sam like this. Jessica had been the closest, loving, yes, but not on this deep, almost spiritual level. Ruby had always kissed him like a venomous cock-tease, working him up and pushing him away until he had to throw her down and take what he wanted while she laughed at his loss of control and egged him on to do worse to her. None of his one night stands had ever kissed him with more than lust. Even Dean had never kissed him like he loved him. The only two times their mouths had met, Dean had been hard and hungry, his brand of love rough like he was ready for a fight. He knew what Sam wanted and Sam knew Dean wanted it too, but he could never just drop the touch guy act and let Sam _love_ him.

_Dean._

Dean’s face, wide eyed and afraid in the dark, flashed in Sam’s mind. His kiss faltered.

Lucifer rolled over, rose up face to face with Sam. “All you really need is to be loved, Sam. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. And no one ever has, have they? Not Dean, not Daddy, certainly none of those heartless bitches who have used you like a walking, talking sex toy.”

Sam tried to block him out, replacing his words with Dean’s. _It’s ok, I got you. You’re gonna be ok. I’ll never ever let anything happen to you. I love you. I’ll never go away. It’s ok._

Lucifer sat cross legged in front of Sam. “Dean doesn’t love you, Sam. He never has, not really. You are the reason his mother is dead. And he saw that, did you know? He saw her over Daddy’s shoulder, watched her burn to death. He lost his mother, his home, his childhood, and helplessly watched his father devolve into an abusive alcoholic, all because of a baby he was forced to raise when he was only a child himself. Hardly seems fair.”

Tears stung Sam’s eyes. I wasn’t his fault, it couldn’t be. He would have given anything to have been able to change things. He had even gotten so drunk one night that he prayed for the angels to send him back before that night and let him smother his infant self in his crib and be done with it. His mother would have had nothing to die for, his father never would have become the broken hunter, and Dean would have grown up with a normal life. He screamed and cried, staggering around, praying for an end to it all. Castiel had finally stepped out of the shadows, calmed him with a touch, babbled on about destiny and shit Sam didn’t care about. The angel had swept Sam up into his arms and returned him to his bed, applying another holy touch to his forehead, blessing him with a dreamless sleep. When he opened his eyes in the morning the first thing he saw was Dean, sound asleep on the edge of his own bed, his arm outstretched toward Sam. Even in his sleep he knew when Sam needed him.

“Do you know why your father made it Dean’s mission to keep you safe?” Lucifer continued. “Your mother, his wife, the only woman he ever loved, sacrificed her life trying to save you. So he dedicated his life to honoring hers by protecting you, even before he knew what he was protecting you from. But deep down he loathed you, Sam, because you are the reason she died. His whole world was torn apart because of you. After a while the only way he could honor your mother was by making it Dean’s mission in life to keep you safe… from him. He didn’t love you. He even told Dean to kill you, because you are a monster. And monsters belong in Hell, don’t you?”

Sam shook his head, choking back his tears, unable to speak.

Lucifer placed his hand gently under Sam’s chin, turned his face back to him. “I am the only one who will ever love you, Sam. Just give in, let that collar fall, and come to me. Ask me to kiss you again and I will.” 

“Dean,” Sam whispered, trying to keep his mind focused. He had to find a way to get out and save Dean from the real monster. _The devil lies,_ he thought. He remembered the tears in Dean’s eyes when he made his decision to be Lucifer’s vessel. That was love. It had to be.

Lucifer laughed, dark and low. “Ah, yes, Dean. You will murder him eventually. The soulless are very dangerous animals, you especially. If he is very lucky you’ll kill him quickly and not make a project out of it. Either way you will send him straight back to Hell, and one of my legion will giftwrap him and deliver him to us. If you are good, very good, I will let you have him. Every good pet deserves a toy. You can hurt him, cut him, paint yourself in his blood, even do all those things you try so hard to pretend you don’t want to do. And he will welcome it. He will say the things you want to hear, _It’s ok, I got you, I love you,_ while you gut him or fuck him.”

Sam gritted his teeth and tried not to feel his cock stir. He could almost feel Dean under him, smell him close, taste his blood. He shook his head and screamed.

Lucifer stepped away from Sam, making himself comfortable on a throne of writhing souls. “I think,” he said coldly, “that you’ve already forgotten what Dean would like to do to you given the chance.” He snapped his fingers.

“Hey, Sammy.”

A small cry escaped Sam when he heard Dean’s voice, icy and dead. The floor under him liquefied, darkened to a blacker than black that did not even reflect the light around him. Tentacles rose from ripples in the floor, no longer the cage floor but the body of the unnamed creature, and in his mounting panic Sam realized it had been there the whole time, lurking beneath him, waiting for another chance to hurt him. The tentacles gripped him, undulating, tasting every inch of him. They threw him over onto his back, lifted him off the floor until the chain on his collar snapped his head back. Oily, violating tentacles wound around his limbs, spreading him wide open and helpless on an alter made of the creature’s body. With his head still pulled back he saw Dean approach, naked, acres of muscle glistening with sweat and splattered with blood, his eyes alight with Hellfire. He squatted down in front of Sam and kissed him, a savage upside down kiss full of teeth and tongue, a stark contrast to Lucifer’s gentle touch.

“How dare you think that I didn’t fucking love you, Sammy,” Dean hissed. “I sacrificed everything for you. I protected you. I went hungry for you. Do you know many times I went on a _hunt_ with Dad when it was really just me driving him to a bar, waiting out in the cold while he got fucked up, then letting him use me as a punching bag until he didn’t have any fight left so he wouldn’t go back and do the same to you? Or how many times I let those fucking angels hurt me to protect you? I even burned in Hell for you, Sammy, so don’t you fucking dare think that I didn’t love you.”

Lucifer winked at Sam from his throne.

“The devil lies! How many times did I tell you that? And now look what you’ve done,” Dean raged.

“I know you love me,” Sam choked out.

Dean looked into Sam’s eyes. “I fucking hate you,” he growled. “You were my whole world, Sammy, and then you threw it all away.”

“Dean, get me out of here. Cas—“

“Oh, shut up,” Dean growled, shoving his hard cock into Sam’s mouth, choking him. He slit Sam’s throat while savagely raping his mouth. Dean turned his head and winked at Lucifer, his eyes blazing angelic blue. Lucifer smiled.

Sam bled out and suffocated, his agony so sharp it kept him from blacking out. In the last moment before he was released into oblivion Lucifer snapped his fingers and restored Sam’s life. He found himself partially healed, still tangled in the oily black grip of the ancient thing from the Pit, a naked and bloody Dean grinning at him like a maniac.

“I’ll let this fucking thing, this ruiner, tear you apart, Sammy. You deserve it, for all the things you’ve done to me and to anyone else who ever gave a shit about you. But first, I’m going to do to you all the things I know you’re planning to do to me after your goddamn meatsuit murders me and Lucifer gives me to you like a Christmas present. You’re going to suffer, Sammy.”

The savagery of Dean’s assault drew a crowd from beyond the walls, hordes of demons willing to die in the cage just to watch the Winchesters’ blood sport. Sam could be heard shrieking for days on end, his cries echoing through Hell, amusing souls even in the throes of deepest torture. Dean, or rather Michael dressed as Dean, brutalized Sam in ways even Lucifer found impressive, using many of Dean’s own refined torture techniques.

“Come to me, Sam and it will all stop. Come to me and be loved,” Lucifer said, his voice velvety and dark.

Sam had almost nothing left. He lay limp on the floor, his only movement the weak trembling of his muscles. His face was bruised and swollen, his body full of broken bones and ruptured organs. His skin was blistered and scabbed, caked in blood, come, and infernal black slime. All three mingling fluids leaked from his mouth and ass, as well as a third orifice carved into his chest above his heart. He should be dead. He wanted to be dead, he felt dead inside. He began to see submission as his only escape. He wanted to crawl to Lucifer, to long for his kiss, but deep down he longed for Dean’s. No matter what Dean had done to him Sam knew it was out of love, and that the devil lies, and what Lucifer offered wasn’t love or release but more torment. Sam remembered Lucifer’s promise to fully restore him to _the Sam that took on the devil to save the world._ That would also have to be the Sam that escapes Hell to save his brother. It would be his only chance.

This time, Sam felt his collar relax.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam awoke swinging from what he thought was a series of variably sized meat hooks, piercing through his shoulders and back, suspending him above the floor. The circle of light surrounded him but had no discernible origin, the effect of which, when combined with the gentle swaying, left him unable to tell which way was up or down, like drifting under water. His collar was still in place, held tight by a greasy black tentacle. He glanced down to see the hooks were also part of the dripping tentacle beast, narrowed to fine points and gouged through his flesh. He barely registered the pain above the cold and hunger and thirst. He tried to remain focused on the task at hand; trick Lucifer, break out of Hell, save Dean, but he felt himself slipping into the murky darkness, distracted by the constant alarms raised by his body’s condition. Lucifer would never let him die but his body thought it was dying and it remained in a state of panic. The constant, savage abuse he suffered only added fuel to the fire. He knew if he didn’t get out soon he would lose himself entirely and break under the fallen angel’s will.

Lucifer appeared before him, illuminated from within, his face gentle and peaceful as a church icon. All six of his enormous wings spread out behind him, each set pulsing to with its own hypnotic rhythm. They were beautiful, otherworldly. To say they were golden would be to say sunrise is yellow. Sam didn’t have enough words to describe the colors he saw. The angel hovered above the floor, drifting with Sam so that they remained face to face, or maybe they were standing still and the cage was drifting around them, the laws of physics seemed to be failing as rapidly as Sam’s sanity.

“Sam,” he said softly. “I can only imagine how badly you must hurt right now. Don’t you want this to end?”

Sam nodded weakly, straining against the collar, its metal spikes still impaling his throat, the beast pulling the chain tighter just to fuck with him.

“Do you want to kiss me, Sam?”

Sam nodded again, straining to move his head, tears burning his eyes against his will.

“Then why don’t you?” Lucifer asked, drifting closer, bringing their lips almost to touching.

“My collar’s too tight,” Sam rasped, barely able to speak anymore.

Lucifer parted his lips, lingering so close to Sam’s mouth he could taste his icy breath. It left a tingling aftershock across Sam’s tongue, and he wanted more, straining against his collar but unable to reach the angel’s lips. Lucifer sighed, another tingling aftershock rolling over Sam’s tongue, his mouth watering.

“Because it knows,” Lucifer finally said. He stared into Sam’s eyes, and Sam could clearly see the maelstrom of blue-white fire behind the dark blue eyes of the meatsuit he wore. Sam could see the angel within, the ancient celestial force bottled up tightly in its avatar. For the first time, Sam was truly afraid of Lucifer.

“It knows,” the fallen angel continued, “the difference between submission and trickery. It will only release when you are broken beyond hope.” He caressed Sam’s cheek, leaving tracers of tingling bliss across his skin. Sam began sobbing, trapped somewhere between agony and ecstasy, his new found need for Lucifer’s touch growing hotter and sharper than even his overwhelming thirst.

“Why do you let yourself suffer so much, Sam? Why won’t you let me love you?” Lucifer touched the tip of his index finger to his lips, a small kiss, then touched the fingertip to Sam’s lips. Sam’s world jolted, shifting rapidly from black and white to stunning color. The shock of warmth rolled through his mouth, across his face and down, soothing the festering wounds in his neck, sating his hunger and thirst. His body trembled with euphoria rather than weakness. His sobbing turned to panting, the intoxicating rush flooding down his body, lighting up every nerve ending on its way to his cock, already hard and glistening before the tidal wave of the angel’s kiss reached it. It felt like fucking a bolt of lightning. He writhed his way through the most intense orgasm of his life, gasping and bucking, undeterred by the hooks still suspending him. As the high faded away Sam found himself hanging limp and weak again, the cold and pain seeping back into his bones.

Lucifer regarded Sam with pouting lips. “Maybe you should sleep on it,” he said with a cold touch to Sam’s forehead. “And dream a little dream of me.”

Sam felt himself plunged into the icy, black water of unconsciousness. He struggled against the current, but Lucifer’s touch thrust him deeper, far below the surface of consciousness, down into the depths of sleep and dreams. He was set adrift in a sea of sensory deprivation. The unending onslaught of pain and cold, the background screaming noise of Hell, even the cold spotlight he’d been displayed under for more than a hundred years, were absent here. He didn’t want to dream of Lucifer, did not want that fallen bastard to ravage his mind the way he had his body and soul. In this strange isolation, unable to see or hear or feel, his mind began to wander, seeking comfort in his secret wants, indulging his guilty pleasures. Sam grasped at the last remaining tendrils of his conscious will and found something dear to hold onto as he was dragged down into the nightmare currents, something to save him. Green eyes and a cocky smile to ward off the darkness. _Dean._

He began to dream.

*

*

*

Dad let them out of the car at the intersection of the gravel logging road they’d traveled here on and the overgrown ATV trail that led to the long abandoned cabin they were squatting in. His instructions were basic, his standard, “Clean up, I’ll be back soon.” Sam understood he meant _clean the guns, clean the blades, patch yourselves up, wash the blood off your hands, bag up your bloody clothes and we’ll burn them later, don’t start a fire or do anything to draw attention to yourselves, I’ll be back eventually._

“Yes, sir,” Dean said obediently as always. “Shoot first, ask questions later, always take care of Sammy,” he added, but Dad was already driving away, a black phantom fading into the rainy dusk. Dean turned, slung his bag over his shoulder, and began the 3 mile hike to the cabin.

Sam narrowed his eyes, his jaw muscles tightening as he watched Dad leave them again. He wouldn’t be back tonight, Sam knew. Sam always knew. If anyone ever wanted to write the biography of Sam Winchester it would titled _Sam Knew._ Sam knew Dad was on his way back to town, on the hunt for whiskey and a lonely waitress, probably a hot shower and a full meal as well. Sam snorted. _Bastard._.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean called back through the trees. “Daylight’s a’wastin.”

Sam turned and headed up the trail, his long legs catching him up to Dean quickly. They walked in silence, stealthy, keenly aware of their surroundings. You never knew who or what you might run into in the woods, especially in Oregon. They could encounter other hunters looking into the same case, animal hunters, mushroom pickers, pot growers, hippies, witches, or possibly a friend or friends of that thing they’d just ganked.

Sam hated Oregon. It was always wet, it always smelled loamy, and it always had some creepy vibe thrumming just below its surface. He hated the wet most of all. It was the very tail end of summer, and for the last few days they’re been here it was hot and sticky, and now today it was raining and cold. He didn’t know what they called it and he didn’t care, but the air itself was wet even between rain showers. He and Dean were soaked through by the time they made it to the dilapidated shell that had once been a cabin. It was deep twilight now, moments before nightfall, and the temperature had dropped enough to leave the rain soaked boys shivering. Sam desperately wanted to start a fire in the crumbled stone fireplace, a small one, just enough to help dry them off and warm up a bit. Damn Dad and his bullshit rules.

The boys used a rain barrel out back to wash up. The water was cold but clean. Sam washed his hands and forearms, scrubbing off the dried blood, then splashed some on his face for good measure even though he knew he didn’t really need it. Dean, on the other hand, was always the messy one. He stripped out of his bloody clothes and stood there naked, shivering in the mist, looking like the slasher in a horror movie. He grinned at Sam, then bent over and dunked himself to the shoulders in the barrel. Sam shook his head and took Dean’s clothes inside. That idiot was going to freeze to death.

Sam peeled his wet clothes off and put them in a pile with Dean’s. It was at that moment, as he stood there cold and wet and naked, that he realized Dad had driven off with their bags in the trunk. _Fuck_. All they had left in the cabin this morning was a couple of threadbare blankets. He rummaged through Dean’s gun bag, found a pair of boxers which he quickly slipped into, a very old AC/DC t-shirt and sweatpants, both of which he’d save for Dean so he didn’t die from hypothermia when he was done with his Oregon rain bath. He toweled himself off with the worst of the two blankets. He sighed. They were going to freeze tonight.

Dean ran inside looking like a half drowned kitten, arms wrapped around himself, teeth chattering, hopping around to try and warm himself up. Sam quickly wrapped the damp blanket around him and started toweling him off. He was shivering and swearing but let Sam fuss over him. He spent so much of his time taking care of Sam that he didn’t always think to take care of himself. Those were the times Sam took care of him, and though he felt it was something Sam should never have to do, Dean loved it, deep down, that warm feeling of being cared for. He indulged himself for a few moments, letting Sammy towel his hair, before stepping abruptly away and shaking himself off like a wet dog.

“Ah, shit,” Dean said. “The bags still in the car?”

“Yep.”

“Shit,” Dean repeated.

Sam quickly offered him the dry clothes, trying not to stare. Dean looked good in anything, and he looked even better out of everything. This was far from the first time he’d seen Dean naked, Dean wasn’t terribly shy or body conscious, and they’d spent a lot of time cleaning up together after messy kills, but this was the first time he’d felt a real appreciation for Dean’s body. He was well built, composed of sculpted muscles and perfect proportions. Sam smiled to himself. He never should have taken an art appreciation class.

Dean nodded at Sam’s boxers. He tried not to look too long, but damn that boy had gotten big. “Dude, you’re going to freeze to death.”

“I’m not the one who decided to go for a swim. Now get dressed. I have a blanket, I’ll be fine.”

Too cold to argue, Dean put on the sweatpants and shirt. It wasn’t exactly warm, but it would have to do. He dug in his bag for his stash. “Ah ha!” he said triumphantly, pulling out a packet of Pop-Tarts. He tore the foil packet open. One of the Pop-Tarts had been broken into several pieces while traveling in the duffel bag with the guns and knives, but the other was mostly intact. He tossed it to Sam, who caught it and sat down on the small cot in the corner to eat it, wrapped in his blanket. Dean shoved some broken pieces of Pop-Tart in his mouth and got to work cleaning his machete, pretending it wasn’t too dark to see well enough, and that it wasn’t too cold for him to sit still. He was seeing only by the moonlight leaking through the windows when he finally gave up. It had stopped raining, but it was still misty and cold. Shivering, he laid down on his cot, across the room from Sam, listening to the night and willing himself to fall asleep.

“Dean,” Sam finally said, causing Dean’s heart to skip. “Come here.”

“You cold?” he asked stubbornly. He wasn’t going to get into bed with Sam unless Sam needed him. What he needed didn’t matter, and he’d already let Sam fuss over him tonight.

“You’re freezing,” Sam said. “Get your ass over here.” Dean could hear him moving in the dark, the creak of the small camp cot as he made room for Dean. _Fine._ Dean crossed the room quickly and found Sam had moved himself to the outside edge of the cot and was holding the blanket back. Dean crawled in front of Sam, facing the rough wood wall. Sam curled up close to Dean’s back and pulled the blanket back over them both. Sam’s body heat up against him gave Dean goosebumps.

“Hey, why do I have to be the little spoon?” Dean argued, although he wouldn’t want to be anything else in the world right then.

Sam snorted softly. “Because you _are_ the little spoon,” he laughed.

“Shut up, bitch,” Dean laughed back, elbowing Sam in the ribs. Sammy was right, though. He was dwarfing Dean these days. His arm was around Dean’s middle, his legs bent up behind Dean’s, and Dean couldn’t remember the last time he was so comfortable. He heard Sam mutter _Jerk_ over the top of his head as he drifted to sleep.

Sam was glad Dean had stopped shivering. He nuzzled closer, hoping their shared body heat would counteract the cold at his back so he could sleep too. Dean smelled good, faintly like sweat and rain, but something else so Dean. He smelled like _home_. Sam shrank down just a little, trying to stay warm, and it put his face to the back of Dean’s very warm neck. With every breath he drank in Dean’s scent. He just smelled so _good_.

A slow tornado of thought began to turn in Sam’s head as he settled into a half sleep. The thought of home circled most prominently. He wanted one. Badly. They had never had one, not since Mom died and Dad went crazy with grief and his blood lust for revenge. Sam wanted to finally have a home. No more running, no more hunting. And more than anything else he wanted to give Dean a home. He didn’t want to cuddle with him on a worn old cot in a collapsing cabin, hungry and cold and wet, waiting in vain for Dad to come back for them, to bring them dry clothes and something to eat. He wanted to sit on a comfortable couch with him, their couch in their home, eating a real dinner and watching football. Sam wanted nothing so badly but to take Dean away from this goddamned life and give him everything he deserved, everything Dad never gave them. Dean had always been there for him his entire life and now Sam wanted to be there for Dean for the rest of his.

Sam pressed his face gently to the back of Dean’s neck. He smelled so good, and he felt so good, warm and solid. He wasn’t quite aware he had pulled Dean closer, had rolled against him, slid his leg between Dean’s. He also wasn’t quite aware that Dean had moved his legs apart to accommodate Sam’s, had pressed back closer to Sam, had bowed his head down to expose the back of his neck when Sam’s mouth brushed up against it.

Sam had a secret he needed to share with Dean, but the time had never been right. Now summer was almost over and he was out of time. He had wanted to tell Dean at his graduation, when Dean draped his Honors cords around his neck and told him how proud he was of him, and how proud Dad was even though he couldn’t be there to see him graduate. Dean took him out for a nice dinner after, just like all the normal families of his graduating class, and he wanted to tell him then, but Dad called, and it was time to grab their bags and get in the car and go. Hunt after hunt had taken up the summer, and they hadn’t had any time alone, and Sam was afraid to tell Dad. Uncle Bobby knew already. The acceptance letter had gone to his house, the only steady mailing address the Winchesters had. When they had stopped by for a night Bobby had slipped the envelope to him, gripped his shoulder and nodded his encouragement. Sam had been accepted to Stanford. He was going to leave Dad, and Dean for a while. He was going to go to school, bust his ass and make something of himself. He was going to buy a real house, and it would always be full of enough food, and clean laundry, and hot water, and warm blankets. Then he would go back for Dean and _bring him home._ Fuck Dad and his crazy bullshit, he could hunt monsters for the rest of his life if he wanted. But Sam was going to give Dean safety and comfort and a warm bed and all the pie and anything he could ever want. Dean would never have to do anything ugly again. He wouldn’t even have to work if he didn’t want to. Sam would take care of him.

Sam slowly realized he was kissing the back of Dean’s neck. God, he tasted as good as he smelled. His arm was tight around Dean, up under his shirt, his thumb softly stroking Dean’s nipple. He blinked, waking a little more, and became very aware of his erection, pressed up tight against Dean. _Shit._ He decided to roll back away when he felt Dean move. He froze. Dean was awake, he could tell by his breathing, and fuck here he was with his mouth on Dean’s neck and his cock hard up against him. He felt Dean’s arm move and prayed he was going to push him away, thinking he was still asleep. But he knew damn well Dean knew he was awake. Sam tensed, waiting for Dean’s violent reaction to his incestuous overture. His brain pumped out excuses, explanations, and his heart pounded.

Dean reached back to Sam, slid his hand over Sam’s hip, grabbed his ass and pulled him closer, at the same time pressing himself back against Sam, his hungry sigh the only sound between them. It was as much consent as Sam needed, and he unleashed his want, grinding himself up against Dean’s ass, kissing and sucking at the back of his neck, working his nipple with his thumb and index finger. Dean moaned and tightened his grip on Sam’s ass. Dean pulled away just long enough to roll over. He attacked Sam’s mouth with his own, kissing him hard and deep, tangling his hands in Sam’s hair. He wrapped one leg around one of Sam’s, hooking it with his foot and rolling back, pulling Sam on top of him. Sam felt Dean’s very hard cock through his sweats, hot and solid against his belly. He pulled Dean’s shirt off over his head and dove for his throat, kissing and biting him, running his large hands all over Dean’s body, sliding them up his back then dragging his nails down, making him arch up to Sam, gasping. Sam kissed his way down Dean’s chest, stopping to bite and lick his nipples. Dean was squirming, grinding against him, pulling his hair. Sam kept going. He had never been in bed with a guy, had never even thought about it, but he wanted Dean so badly he’d figure out what to do as he went. He kissed and sucked along Dean’s torso, feeling his abdominal muscles contract beneath his smooth skin. Despite the cold they were both beginning to sweat. Sam was halfway off the cot now, his long legs kneeling on the floor, his face buried in Dean’s lower belly. He put his mouth around Dean’s cock, over his sweats, and bit down gently.

“Oh, Sammy… Sammy, please,” Dean whispered, driven wild by Sam’s hot breath on his cock and the pressure of his teeth around it. He stroked Sam’s hair and writhed as Sam hooked the waistband of his sweats and started to pull them off. He was so afraid of where this was going but didn’t want it to stop. He gasped when his cock hit the cold air then gasped again as it was enveloped in the wet heat of Sam’s mouth. He never wanted this to end.

Sam had been the recipient of a couple of awkward teenage blowjobs, so he understood the basics: work up, work down, no teeth, don’t gag. He did his best for Dean, gripping the base of his cock tight in one hand while he worked his mouth up and down its impressive length, opening wide to take it all in, then sliding off and teasing with his tongue when he felt in danger of gagging. Dean kept whispering his name, stroking his hair feverishly, bucking his hips, so Sam knew he was doing well. He kept sucking, coaxing a powerful orgasm from Dean, squeezing his balls with his free hand. Dean’s whole body stiffened, his grip on Sam’s hair tightening, a deep, low moan pouring out of him as he came. Sam felt the hot rush of fluid and swallowed every drop, relishing the taste of Dean filling his mouth, so close to coming himself.

Dean grasped Sam’s shoulders, coaxing him back onto the bed. Sam crawled up by Dean’s side. Dean kissed him, thrusting his tongue into his mouth, moaning as he tasted himself on Sam’s tongue. Sam wrapped his arms around Dean, returning the passionate kiss. Dean reached down to grasp Sam’s hard cock, wetting his hand with the pre-come pooling at the tip. Dean knew what he liked and was sure Sam would like it too, so he began to stroke and squeeze, working Sam’s cock as expertly as he worked his own. Their mouths never separated, devouring each other hungrily, until Sam finally cried out into Dean’s mouth as he came, jets of hot fluid soaking their bellies. Sam lay panting as Dean peppered his face with small kisses. He pulled his sweats back on, then helped Sam back into his boxers. Dean got Sam into the t-shirt to keep him warm, then pulled him close. Sam closed his eyes, his head on Dean’s chest, and let Dean soothe him to sleep, running fingers through his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the kudos and comments! I'll try to get 2 chapters in this weekend if I can. If not, at least this one ended on a juicy note for you ;)


	9. Chapter 9

Sam felt warm hands patting his cheeks.

“Wake up, Sammy”

Sam groggily opened his eyes and found the most beautiful green eyes looking back at him in the pre-dawn light, still lying next to him on the small cot. He leaned in and kissed Dean, not quite awake yet, not quite ready to let go of the intimacy of the night before.

Dean pulled away, patting Sam’s cheek gently but insistently. “Ok, ok. I love you, too, Sammy. But I need you to listen now.”

Sam blinked, waking up fully. The room was cold, growing colder by the moment as he woke. His stomach growled. When was the last time they had eaten? 24 hours ago? It felt like longer. He shivered.

“Where are you, Sam?” Dean asked, his brow deeply furrowed.

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Oregon.”

Dean cupped Sam’s face, his touch firm, his eyes widening. “Where are you, Sam?” he repeated, his tone gruffer.

Sam’s stomach dropped. He didn’t like where this was going. He tried to pull free of Dean but his grip only tightened.

“You’re in Hell, Sam. And I need you to listen to me, now.”

“Dean… Are you really here?” Sam asked, unsure if he was talking to Dean, some demon, Lucifer or Michael, or if he had finally lost his mind.

Dean stroked his cheeks with his thumbs. “No, not until your psycho Megatron self murders me, anyway. I’m your voice of reason, Sammy.” Dean smirked. “I’m the last of your marbles.”

Sam felt rising waves of panic as the familiar cold began to creep in. He grabbed hold of Dean, gripping his arms hard enough to bruise, holding him desperately like a talisman against the darkness.

“It’s ok,” Dean said, not resisting Sam’s rough handling. “You’re still dreaming, he can’t see us or hear us. You already figured out that’s why there’s no dreaming allowed in Hell. Lucifer is dumb enough to assume you’d dream of him and you’re smart enough to dream of me. Now listen carefully while you can still think. You know you’re in Hell. You also know your body is running around topside, tearing shit up. It’s just a hollow killing and fucking machine without your soul at the helm. Do you understand what that means?”

Sam stared with wild eyes. He understood what he might be capable of without a soul to keep his inner darkness in check. He had no doubts he would kill Dean eventually, losing control in a fit of the classic Winchester rage, and he had no doubts that finally killing him would be a mercy compared to what he might do to him up until that point. He thought of that night in the cabin, how he had given in to his hunger for Dean and devoured him, and how those feelings had continued to grow, intensifying as the years went on, and although he kept them bottled up tightly they still pulsed just beneath his skin and behind his eyes, waiting for the right moment. There had been plenty of near misses in the years since; lingering stares that spoke more than words ever could, the seemingly casual but prolonged brushing of a chest up against a back, and one hell of a kiss he could still taste years later. But the memory of that one smoldering night was always there, lurking just below the surface, threatening to undo them both. A dream of it would sometimes stir him out of his sleep, forcing him into a late night shower to take care of his frustrated, wanting cock, and he would find himself leaning against the shower wall under a cascade of hot water, stroking himself like Dean had, watching the unlocked bathroom door and hoping Dean would figure it out and join him. All these thoughts were about love and lust and their deep bond, but Sam knew that without his soul, without the capacity to love Dean or share that bond, his body would take pleasure in using Dean every way possible. He looked at Dean with tears in his eyes.

“Don’t lose your shit on me, Sam,” Dean said, stroking his cheeks again. “You have to listen to me. Your body’s not here, Sammy. This,” he put his hand on Sam’s chest, over his heart, “is your soul, not your body. Nothing you’ve been through is real. None of this is really happening. It’s just the devil slow fucking your brain to pudding.”

Sam put his hand over Dean’s. It sure felt fucking real.

Dean glanced up at the window. It was getting lighter outside, dawn was breaking all around them. “You know what happens next.”

Sam shook his head, fighting back more tears, tightening his grip on his brother. “No.”

“Sammy, he’s not gonna let you wake up until you scream.”

“No, Dean, don’t make me. I don’t want to…”

“None of this is really happening, you _have_ to remember that. It’s just a nightmare. Play his game, it’s your only chance. He’ll let his guard down if he thinks he’s won. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, you’re just too damn stubborn to listen to yourself.”

Sam nodded, his lower lip trembling.

Dean kissed his forehead softly. “And Sammy? When you make it back to me, do us both a favor. Tell me that this,” he gestured around them, “what happens next, isn’t my fault. You know everything, baby brother, and you know I blame myself for what happened. You know that’s why I never wanted to touch you again.”

Dean drew Sam in for a deep kiss. The room grew brighter in the dawn light. The rain had long since stopped, and morning mist rose from the ground in response to the warming touch of the sun.

“Wake up, Sammy.”

Sam opened his eyes and found Dean close beside him, his sleepy face almost nose to nose with him, his hands tangled in Sam’s hair. Goddamn he was a beautiful sight.

“Dad,” Dean said, a single word to break moment.

_Dad._ _Fuck._ Dad could be back at any minute. The boys quickly got out of bed. Dean went across the room and started repacking his bag. Sam looked down and saw that his t-shirt had soaked up most of the come. _Shit._ He pulled it off and tossed it into the burn pile, rolled everything up in the blankets, set it next to Dean’s bag. They then waited, Sam by the door, Dean by the back window, both shirtless and rigid, watching and listening. Dad liked to keep them ready. Sometimes he would sneak up on them to test them. When they were small he like to creep up in the shadows and snatch one of them up, usually Sammy right out from under Dean’s nose. Dean not only repeatedly suffered the trauma of losing Sam, but he sometimes earned himself a beating for it. He never really cared about getting hit as much as he cared about losing Sam. Sam was much too big to snatch up these days, but Dad still crept up on them, watched them, tried to catch them off guard. He could be anywhere right now, just inside the tree line, waiting to catch one of them going out back to piss.

Dean stood watch obediently. Sam seethed. Where the hell was Dad? Maybe he wouldn’t even be back for them today. He never came back when he said he was going to. What took him so long? Sam knew a hunt shouldn’t take weeks. You cruise into town, find the monster, gank it, blow out of town. It took Sam a day or two in the library to get more info on a hunt than Dad got within a week of arriving in town. There was no reason for him to be gone on a hunt for more than a few days, no reason they should have been abandoned for weeks at a time, left to fend for themselves and fight off the occasional monster that came hunting for them. Sam knew, like he always knew. Dad was out screwing around, getting drunk, getting laid, getting away from his baggage. Screw Dad. Sam had a plan. Classes started in a couple weeks. He would be there. He would be something. He would walk away from this life and make something better for himself and Dean. He looked back at Dean, and wanted more than anything to say _I’m doing this for you, for us._ But Dean looked like a brainwashed soldier right now, Daddy’s Good Boy, and Sam couldn’t look at him anymore. When he turned back he saw Dad coming through the trees, their bags over his shoulder. Sam whistled to get Dean’s attention.

Once he was dressed Sam built a small fire pit and burned the pile of bloody clothes, plus one t-shirt and two old blankets. Dad and Dean chatted about the hunt, the kill, the lore, but Sam was quiet, lost in his thoughts and watching the evidence of last night’s encounter turn to ash. The hike back down to the car was quiet, Dad and Dean in stealth mode, ready for anything they might run into, Sam still lost in the storm raging through his mind. He was psyching himself up to leave his family. Nothing had ever hurt him so badly before. He wasn’t sure he could go through with it, especially after he and Dean had gotten so… close.

“Where were you last night?” he asked, directing his question to the back of Dad’s head, stopping dead in his tracks just yards from the car.

Dad slowed, then stopped and turned to face Sam. “I cleaned up the kill site, buried the bodies, then slept in the car. I decided not to come back this way in case I was followed.” His eyes narrowed, daring Sam to question him again.

Dean watched Sam from over Dad’s shoulder, unable to read him. _Shit, Sam, don’t pick a fight._

“Ah,” Sam said, a cocky half smile toying with his lips. “Is that why you smell like liquor and pussy this morning?”

Dean’s eyes grew large. _What the fuck?_

Dad took a step toward Sam. “Excuse me?”

Sam took a step toward Dad. “Well, I was just wondering what you were doing last night. Do you know what we were doing last night?”

_Oh, Jesus, Sam, no…_ Dean shook his head quickly.

“We were freezing. We were cold, and wet, and really hungry. But you look like you probably ate well, and slept well, and stayed warm enough. You know, _the usual_.”

Dad took a step and closed the distance between them. “Shut your fucking mouth and get in the car,” he growled.

“No,” Sam growled back. “Not now. Not ever again.” Sam could see Dean over Dad’s shoulder but refused to look at him. If he did he would lose it completely. He could feel Dean’s panic, see how wide his eyes were, see his mouth gaping slightly. Leaving Dad meant leaving Dean, at least for now, and it was killing him.

Dean stood silent, his eyes wide, his lip trembling. _Sammy… Did I do this?_

Dad and Sam glared at each other, neither one backing down. Dean felt the tears he knew Dad would hit him for later but was helpless to stop them. _Is this because of me?_ _Because of last night?_

“I said _get in the car,_ Sam.”

“I said _no._ I’m done with you, and your bullshit, and this life.”

_Sammy, please, no…_

Dad sneered. He and Sam always made the same faces when they were pissed, whether they realized it or not. “You get your ass in the car now, Sam, or I will leave you here. For good.”

“This is me walking away, old man. I deserve better. I deserve a real life. I deserve better than _you._ ”

_Sammy I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t go!_

Dad brought his hand up, ready to backhand Sam but hesitated.

Dean made a soft, hurt gasp, reaching for Dad.

Sam sneered, looking down into Dad’s eyes. “What are you doing?” he hissed, motioning toward Dad’s hand with his chin. “Saving that for Dean?”

Dad struck Sam hard enough to bloody his lip. “Get in the car, Dean,” he snarled, not breaking eye contact with Sam.

Tears were now freely streaming down Dean’s face. _Did I do this?_ he mouth but Sam would not look at him.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam said, eyes locked on Dad’s. “Get in the car.”

“In the car _now,_ Dean. You walk away, Sam. Walk away and never come back.”

Sam spit blood and smiled his wicked half smile at Dad. He never let it show but the moment Dad turned his back on him felt like a punch in the gut. Losing Dean was like a punch in the soul.

Dean backed away to the Impala, tears streaming uncontrollably, still mouthing _I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t leave me,_ wanting his brother to just look at him, acknowledge what this was doing to him. He would gladly take the worst beating of his life from Sam if it meant he would just stay and he would never touch him again. Sam was only 18, still a baby, and Dean had to protect him and take care of him. How the hell was he gonna be ok on his own? He would tell Dad it was his fault so he wouldn’t be mad at Sammy and then Dad could hit him too, and it wouldn’t matter, he wouldn’t care because he would do anything to get Sam back. He felt so cliché, his palms against the window he watched Sam through as they actually drove away and left him behind.

Sam watched silently as Dad and Dean drove away, careful to watch only the back of the car and not the window Dean stared back at him through. Once they were out of sight and he could no longer hear the roar of engine he fell to his knees and screamed his throat raw. He had just given up the one thing he loved most in the world. He was alone now. He didn’t know if, when he came back for him, Dean would ever forgive him for this. He wasn’t sure he would ever forgive himself for it.

*

Sam awoke in the pale light of Hell, chained to the floor, shivering in the damp cold, starving and too dehydrated to sob as he had in his dream. Abandoned in Hell, his memories remained as clear as reflections on a lake of glass. His heart ached.

“Mmm, I love it when you cry in your sleep, Sam,” Lucifer purred from the darkness. “It’s so sweet.”

Sam collapsed. He had no strength left.

“Shhh, it’s ok, Sam,” Lucifer said, his haunting eyes gentle. “When Dean gets here we’ll be one big happy family.”

“Dean…” Sam rasped, looking up at Lucifer.

“It won’t be long now…” Lucifer snapped his fingers, scrying into the darkness around them. Sam watched in helpless horror.

*

In a dark, run down motel room in the second worst part of Detroit Dean lay sound asleep. He was sprawled on his back across the shabby, stained bed, one muscular leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. His mouth was slack, his breathing deep and soft, the furrowed lines of his forehead smoothed away by sleep. The grayed sheets covered only his hips, groin, and bent leg, leaving the rest of his body exposed to the muggy air. He slept only in boxers tonight, feeling too sticky for a shirt, and his bare chest glistened slightly in the dull darkness. One thick, sculpted arm was tucked behind his head, acting as a pillow since the pillows this bed had come with looked entirely too sketchy even for Dean’s low standards. His other hand was tucked under him. He had fallen asleep rubbing a tense muscle in his lower back. He was unarmed, almost naked, a target as vulnerable and delicious as an unattended plate. A shadow towered over him, standing perfectly still, close enough to smell his sweat.

The headlights of a passing car illuminated the clean cut lines of Sam Winchester’s silhouette. He stood unmoving, breathing so slow and shallow he may not have been breathing at all. His broad shoulders were rolled forward, his arms just out from his sides, every muscle tensed and ready. His head was angled down, watching Dean sleep, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chiseled, sweat damp chest. Sam was so close he could almost hear Dean’s heartbeat. He was a statue of the shadow of death, moving only his eyes, sweeping his gaze over every inch of his vulnerable brother, staring for prolonged moments at his mouth, his throat, his thighs. Sam’s stance made plain the fact that he would not hesitate to do something unthinkable to Dean if the impulse struck him. For now, through the night, he watched.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean lay in bed wide awake, sweaty and uncomfortable. The room was muggy, the air warm and stale. His right hand was tucked under the small of his back, numb and tingling because he had been so exhausted he had dozed off rubbing an aching muscle. Damn getting older and the way it screwed with his ability to drag a body and dig a grave. Now his hand was a mess of pins and needles, his good arm was pinned under him, and his fucking back was still spasming.

He knew he should have moved an hour ago, gotten out of bed and stretched his back, had a drink of water and some aspirin, checked on Sam. He definitely should have checked on Sam. It wasn’t the pain in his hand or back that had roused him from his troubled sleep, but the sound of Sam stirring. Dean had lain there about 3 seconds longer than he should have, and now deeply regretted his decision.

Sam was so close Dean could feel his body heat. He had been standing there for an hour already, still as a gravestone, watching. He was so quiet Dean wasn’t one hundred percent sure he was even breathing. Sam without his soul was scary as fuck but this took the goddamned cake. If he decided to make his move, to act on whatever the hell was going through his soulless head, Dean wouldn’t stand a chance. He was too vulnerable and Sam was too close.

Dean remained still, lax and snoring softly. The one thing he was willing to bet his life on, and had no choice now but to do so, was that if Sam’s soul was gone their bond was broken. Soulmates divided. Dean had been waking with Sam almost his whole life, whether they shared a bed or not, he had always woken up the moment Sam did. When they were very small it most often was for bottles feedings and diaper changes, sometimes it was just to rock Sammy back to sleep while they cried for their mother together. When Sammy was sick, had a fever or was throwing up, Dean would be up with him, feeding him baby aspirin, getting him a drink of water, putting him in the bath when his fever broke, stripping off the sweaty or vomit soaked sheets. He would wake up to soothe Sam back to sleep after a nightmare, and God knows he’d had more than the average kid, they both had, and on Dean’s bad nights he would snap awake from a nightmare to find Sam rocking him and telling him it was going to be ok. More than once they had woken when Dad was on a hunt and something had come looking for them, stealing through the shadows, reaching for one of them. Sometimes it was to reach up from his blanket on the floor to hold Sam’s hand so neither would be alone in the dark. Once for so much more than he had ever expected, when he had woken with Sam in the night and Sam put his mouth all over him and made him feel whole for the first and only time in his life. On occasion, in the darkest corners of the night, Dean had woken to a bone-deep phantom pain that shook him to the core, gutted him, left him devastated and gasping. He was sure in these moments it was Sam crying out for him from Hell.

But now, his soul lost, Sam was separate from Dean, and couldn’t know Dean was awake with him. Dean was focused on an ancient meditation technique that he could never remember the name of, although it had saved his life in the past and likely would tonight as well. Years ago, when Sam was away at school and Dad was God knows where doing God knows what, he stayed at Bobby’s, hunting things and working on cars. Bobby learned about a case involving a creeper, a creature that literally hunted by the smell of fear. Before heading out Bobby had taught him the meditation, using biofeedback to suppress his body’s natural fight-or-flight response. Having the balls to hunt down a monster didn’t mean it wasn’t also scary as hell, and the smell of fear would have given them away before they could even get close to their target. So Dean had learned how to suppress the adrenaline rush, slow his heart rate and breathing. He used it now to maintain a lower sleep-like body temperature, his breathing slow and deep, his heartbeat calm, his muscles relaxed. He appeared to be sound asleep while still keenly aware of his surroundings, and so far Sam was buying it. Dean knew at the first sign of panic Sam would be on him.

Dean didn’t want to kill Sam. That was the last thing he wanted. He didn’t want to hurt him at all but he wasn’t sure how much more of his psychotic shit he could take. He didn’t like the way Sam looked at him anymore, like a shark eyeing a seal. What he really wanted to do at this moment was reach out and punch Sam in the dick as hard as he could and run, out of the room, to the car and then drive as far the fuck away as he could get. But he’d fallen asleep with his arms in a stupid position, opting to not even sleep with a pillow he could hide his gun under. He could barely sleep with Sam in the room, and had dozed off out of pure exhaustion. Sam never slept anymore. Sometimes he would get up and pace around the room like a caged panther, all sleek lines and low growls, for hours at a time, and if Dean spoke to him, asked if he was ok, Sam would just stare at him with his dead eyes until Dean backed down. Sometimes he simply got out of bed and walked out the door without a word.

Dean wanted to get Sam’s soul back in him, but Empty Sam wanted nothing to do with it, and no one was sure just what kind of shape Sam’s soul might be left in by the time they got it back, since Michael and Lucifer were probably gang raping it into submission at this very moment. From his own experience in Hell Dean was afraid there would never be enough showers in the world to make Sam feel clean again. But he desperately wanted, _needed_ , his brother back and he would do anything to make that happen. He would gladly help Sam in as many showers as he needed to wash off the filth of Hell for the rest of their lives if he could just have him back.

Sam returned to his own bed just as quickly as he had come to Dean’s bedside, whatever urge had been toying with him abated, although he stared at the ceiling instead of falling asleep. Dean waited for what felt like forever before pulling his arms out from under his head and back, and rolled onto his side where he felt a little less vulnerable. He felt Sam’s cold gaze on him like a rapist’s hands.

Dean vowed to himself that he would get Sammy his soul back if he had to nail him to the fucking floor with a nail gun and shove his soul down his throat. Screw anyone who thought it was a bad idea. And if Sam didn’t survive the reunion then Dean would happily eat a bullet and join him, because he could not live without his brother, his partner, his soulmate.


	11. Chapter 11

Lucifer watched Sam with cold, penetrating eyes. Still so beautiful, lying on the floor, limp, almost lifeless, but quite beautiful just the same, all long lines and sculptured curves and lean meat. He hadn’t moved in days, hadn’t even blinked, his golden eyes unfocused and dull. He could easily be mistaken for long dead. Mistaken, because Lucifer would never allow him to die. Not Sam, not his pet, his precious toy. No. Sam could lie there dying a slow, painful death for eternity. Once he surrendered himself fully, Lucifer would reset the game and play again. Perhaps in the next round he would teach Sam to walk on a leash and say sweet things like, “Yes, my Morning Star,” and, “No, my Morning Star.” Perhaps in another round he would train Sam to devise and beg for his own punishments. After that there would be Daddy kink, wing-slaving, and good, old fashioned skinning. Lucifer smirked. They would play so many games. This round was nearly over, he could sense it. He had taken everything from Sam, left him nothing to fight for or fight against, and let him languish in the cold vacuum of the Cage. Lucifer sat back and watched with wicked patience as everything that was Sam Winchester slowly bled out.

Sam felt little more than emptiness. From what Lucifer had shown him he was certain he’d already murdered his brother, though he hoped against hope that was all he had done to him that night. It didn’t matter now. Either Dean was out there somewhere, being ridden hard by all of Hell until his soul burned away to black smoke, or Castiel had intercepted him and smuggled him into Heaven where he could spend his eternity doing whatever it was that would finally give him peace. Sam hoped for the latter. It was the least that bastard angel could do since he had unleashed Sam on the world without a soul to temper him and left Dean at his mercy. After ushering Dean to Heaven maybe Castiel would throw himself into the Pit to burn for his betrayal of those who trusted him and needed him the most. Eventually even Sam’s hatred dissipated away like so much mist, leaving him emptier than before.

Sam’s world now only consisted of Lucifer and pain. He had heard Dean’s voice in the back of his head for the longest time, telling him to play the game and fight his way out of Hell, but the voice was silent now, bled away with his hope. He had given up wishing for death as the cold hand of realization settled around his heart; he was already dead.

His mind grew still, silent as a grave. His breathing trailed off, slower, shallower, finally ending with a last breath so feeble it came and went unnoticed. He shivered involuntarily with the only life left in him in the dank cold of the Cage. A single tear escaped his eye, sliding down his cheek to the floor.

A warm summer breeze caressed Sam’s skin, awakening it with a tingling wave of goosebumps. Sam gasped, his lungs greeted by the sharp intake of sweet smelling air, the scent of petrichor and cherry blossoms washing over him. Sam’s eyes drifted listlessly toward the fallen archangel, hypnotized by the rhythmic motion of his radiant wings and the soothing current they conjured. He was a beautiful monster. Candy coated Hell fire. The longer he gazed at Lucifer the less pain, cold, and hunger he felt. What he felt instead was longing.

Lucifer’s eyes glowed softly as his wings radiated their intoxicating warmth, reviving Sam slowly, like sunlight waking a bee lost in the snow. He looked at Sam with compassion and love, things Sam needed so badly but could never find.

The floor rumbled. It was almost imperceptible, obscured by the background chaos of Hell, but chained to the floor he felt it. The darkness surrounding them seemed to _flinch_ ever so slightly.

Sam’s attention shifted as he felt the floor begin to liquefy, the hard stone shifting to a black oil slick. Ripples slithered through the oil with the monster’s pulse as it returned for another taste of Sam. He rose up from the floor, careful not to slip, turning himself to keep his eyes locked on Lucifer’s. The shapeless thing from the fucking pit was back to tear him apart again, split him open from the inside and disgorge its seed into him, but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered. As long as he could see Lucifer and feel the sweet warmth radiating from his wings he knew he would be ok. He struggled to his hands and knees, spread his legs out for some stability in the slick, held his head as high as he could with his chain so tight, lifted his ass to the thing manifesting behind him. It did not hesitate to take everything he offered and more, plowing into him with a slimy cock shaped appendage, growing longer and thicker with each merciless thrust.

Lucifer watched Sam’s display of submission with something akin to butterflies in his stomach. Sam continued to look into his eyes, never flinching, even as the pit beast pooled another tentacle in front of him. Without hesitation Sam opened his mouth and accepted it, even as it grew thicker and longer like its brother ravaging his ass, his eyes never leaving Lucifer’s. Lucifer cocked an eyebrow as he watched Sam give himself to the beast for Lucifer’s pleasure. He offered Sam a slow wink. The collar loosened considerably, the chain giving some slack. Sam took immediate advantage of this small amount of freedom by lifting his head higher, opening his mouth wider, taking everything the beast fucked into him, mouth and ass, his tearless gaze on Lucifer through the length of the ordeal. Lucifer felt warm all over. This was magnificent.

The beast slithered away, having exhausted itself on Sam. He remained on all fours, such a good dog, watching his master adoringly, waiting patiently for whatever brutalization or affection came next. Lucifer snapped his fingers and purged Sam of the black ichor the beast had pumped into him. A small mercy. Sam cried out as the foul mess was forced from his body. Another snap of Lucifer’s fingers and Sam was cleaned of the black oil.

“Thank you,” Sam whispered. He glistened with sweat, his hair was a stringy mess, his neck a battlefield of puckered, infected wounds. So fragile. Lucifer admired every inch of the all but broken hunter, noting with a sly smile the substantial erection Sam had been sporting since offering himself up to the beast. Yes, this game was nearly at an end.

Dean was tossed into the Cage unceremoniously, like someone throwing a sack of garbage into a dumpster. He landed hard on his belly, his face bouncing off the stone floor. Sam’s eyes immediately broke from Lucifer’s and landed on Dean’s prone, naked body. He was filthy, sweat slick and caked in blood, horribly wounded, disoriented. He called out for Sam with a cracked, haggard voice. Sam reached out for him, gripping his upper arm and dragging him close with a strength neither Sam nor Lucifer knew he possessed. He pulled Dean close, the sweaty skin of his chest sliding against Dean’s bloodied back, one arm tight across Dean’s mauled chest.

“Sam!” Dean cried again, his voice thick and terrified.

“Shh, I got you, baby,” Sam rasped, his face against the side of Dean’s head, his teeth grazing the skin of Dean’s temple as he spoke. “I got you, it’s ok, it’s gonna be ok…”

Sam slipped his chain around Dean’s neck and tightened it, twisting it in one hand, his other arm still holding Dean tight against his chest. Dean kicked and clawed, his face swelling, blood vessels in his eyes bursting as Sam strangled him.

“Shh…” Sam continued to growl against Dean’s temple. “It’s ok.”

Dean stopped struggling, fell back limp against Sam’s chest. Sam pulled his arm away from holding him and put both hands to work strangling his dead body, twisting and squeezing until the chain sank through his throat to the bone. Sam dropped Dean’s body without so much as a glance. He turned his eyes back to his Lucifer, his Morning Star, dropping back to all fours and wondering vaguely if what he had just done was a punishment or a reward. He felt the soft, sweeping caress of the breeze from Lucifer’s wings on his face and he no longer cared which it had been. It was done.

The floor, the air around them rumbled again, this time going unnoticed by Sam and Lucifer, both lost in each other’s gaze. The archangel watched Sam intently, his entire being glowing like Heavenly candlelight, all six of his voluminous, incandescent wings unfurled and beckoning.

Sam wanted Lucifer’s kiss, wanted to feel his intoxicating magic wash over him, heal him, soothe him, make him come without ever laying hands on his flesh. He lost himself in the wanting, gave up and gave in, and the moment he broke was the sweetest release. The savage collar relaxed and fell away like some small, dead animal. Sam was given freedom he no longer wanted. He gazed hungrily into Lucifer’s eyes and began to crawl.

Lucifer raised a single finger and Sam froze. Lucifer pointed the finger downward. “On your belly,” he purred, sensual and commanding, his domination unquestionable.

Sam stretched his glistening, abused body out, watched with pain blown eyes as the floor became a field of broken glass and fire. He crawled, dragging himself over the burning shards, disinterested in his agony, caring only for the reward of the Morning Star’s kiss at the end of his suffering. He felt a tug deep in his gut. It came again, stronger now. He felt it from his throat to his balls and the floor shuddered beneath him. The air seemed to electrify, humming around him. Sam’s focus was solely on Lucifer, ignoring the tugging at his core, and the deep cuts and burns he inflicted on his torso and thighs as he crawled ever closer.

_Keep going, Sammy,_ he almost heard Dean’s voice say, echoing through the emptiness in his head.

After his long, bloody journey Sam finally reached the smooth, cold marble floor where Lucifer sat on his throne of writhing souls. He dragged himself to Lucifer’s feet, pulled himself up on his hands and knees, lowered his head, his eyes downcast and submissive.

“What would you ask of me?” Lucifer inquired, his voice dark and velvety, the air around him warm, sweet, inviting. He bent down toward Sam, bringing them almost face to face.

Sam felt something powerful grip him so hard he almost cried out.

“Sam?” Lucifer prompted, an edge of displeasure sharpening his tone.

Sam looked longingly into Lucifer’s arctic blue eyes. He parted his lips to beg for the kiss, and spit in the Devil’s face. He was snatched out of Hell before Lucifer’s eyes could ignite.

*

*

Sam woke up screaming. In a rapid fire panic he realized he was tied down, chained again, a bright light filling his head as he struggled violently to free himself. He heard voices all around him in a spinning chaos of shouts. One voice finally rose above the dim, loud and clear, and the closest thing to home he’d ever had.

“Sam! Sammy! You’re ok, settle down. I said _uncuff him now!_ ”

Sam reacted to his brother’s voice. “Dean! Dean, _please_ , help me, Dean, I’m so cold…”

He began struggling harder as he felt hands gripping his wrists, fighting him to unlock the handcuffs. The last thing he wanted was anyone’s hands on him and his panic flared like wildfire. His left hand was suddenly free and he swung wildly, blindly landing a solid punch to Dean’s hip. He couldn’t see through the pulsing light behind his eyes or think through the distinct feeling of someone pressing their fingers into his brain. The inside of his head burned and itched. He began screaming again.

Dean cried out and nearly fell when Sam connected with his hip. Sam had a big fist and it was going to leave a big bruise but Dean wasn’t worried about that now. He jumped onto Sam’s chest, trying to hold him still while Bobby got both wrists and both ankles uncuffed. Death was still poking around inside him and from his incoherent screaming Dean was terrified they had well and truly shattered him. Dean quickly grabbed each wrist as it was freed and pulled them in close to his chest.

“Sammy, Sammy you’re gonna be ok, I got you,” he said, trying to be heard over the tortured animal sounds Sam was making. Dean glanced up at Death with tears in his eyes. “What the fuck!” he shouted. Death ignored him and continued his work, speaking softly to Sam as he shunted away all memories of Hell and stitched his wall in place.

The light finally faded and Sam’s vision cleared. Dean’s face came into focus and Sam stopped screaming. He curled his fingers into the front of Dean’s shirt, holding on desperately. “Dean,” he gasped.

“It’s ok, I’m here,” Dean answered, relief straining his voice. He gently rubbed Sam’s wrists, let him grip his shirt, tug at him. “Bobby, get water!” After Bobby ran out of the room Dean let the tears go, peppering Sam’s hands with small, grateful kisses.

Sam’s eyes were wild. “Dean, it’s cold here,” he babbled, almost unintelligibly. “So cold. _Dean, please…_ ” His whole body was in motion, like he was trying to run from something. Dean looked back to Death.

Death pulled his hands out of Sam’s head and tapped a long, bony finger between his eyes. Sam fell still, unconscious.

“Your brother’s soul is returned, the wall is in place, the rest is a matter of time,” Death said matter-of-factly. He then vanished.

Dean climbed off of Sam and onto his knees on the floor beside him. He still held Sam’s wrists in his hands. He chanced a few more kisses across his hands, then pressed them to his tear stained face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam is finally free from Hell, but the story is far from over. There's much more to come, some scary stuff, and some sexy stuff. Let me know what you think so far. As always, thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

Dean took another bite of his cheeseburger. It was almost too big. He always ate like it might be for the last time. He told himself it was because he really loved food, although he knew, deep down in his vault of things denied, it was because he was afraid of starving. He knew he would never be able to stop himself from eating like the next meal may never come. He also knew that no matter what he did he would never be able to stop himself from putting food away as fast as possible so he could be ready to fight, ready to run, ready to take a beating, gank some son of a bitch monster and carry on to the next job. He shoved half a handful of steak fries into his mouth and found something better to think about. Fuck the tragic backstory.

Sam’s eyes rolled quickly back and forth as he read. Dean watched him carefully over the back of the laptop. Sam took a bite of his French dip sandwich like a man who knew there would always be a next meal. He would never know how much that small detail satisfied Dean.

It was good to see the soft light in Sam’s eyes again. The boys had been so busy since Death had returned Sam’s soul that Dean hadn’t had a chance to just look at him, and appreciate seeing his brother whole again. He had fussed over Sam, watching him fall asleep at night, encouraging him to go out for a run if he looked like he felt cooped up, anything to keep him happy. Anything to keep him from over-thinking, or remembering. Anything to keep him from scratching at Death’s wall, the dam that held back all the Hell in his head.

It was bad enough Cas had filled him in on some of the details of his time spent without a soul, essentially a walking corpse, a cold untempered version of his himself that had caused a lot of harm. Sam’s conversation with Cas had left him desperate for redemption. Why did Cas have to be so goddamned stupid and blunt? Sam had single-handedly fought Lucifer and saved the fucking world, but all he cared about was what he had done wrong, and he just couldn’t see himself as a fucking hero for even few minutes. He wanted to remember what he had done so he could redeem himself, but even a small memory trigger a few jobs ago had left Sam in a seizure on the floor, his mind back in the cage for a few moments of God-knows-what kind of torment, with Dean helpless to stop it. He would not let it happen again, he would not lose Sam. He would not lose his other half.

Dean had taken Sam out for a huge steak dinner a few nights ago. Without his soul he had gotten by on the smallest amount of food, just enough to fuel him, and had lost all interest in enjoying a good meal. So Dean had treated them to steak and potatoes and butter and good beer and live music. It was a better steakhouse than any of the usual greasy spoon joints they ate at, and dammit they deserved something good for once. It had felt a little too close to romance but Dean didn’t give a shit. Watching Sam savor his way through an enormous steak with every side dish the place offered, laughing at Dean’s childish jokes, and singing along to the better songs between bites was one of the most beautiful things Dean had ever seen. As they made their way through the parking lot to the car, Sam almost too full to move and goofy drunk, Dean felt all warm and dreamy like falling in love.

Dean hadn’t planned on sharing a bed that night. He had helped Sam get undressed and into bed, which was quite a feat considering Sam was much bigger than he had been the last time Dean had tucked him in to bed, and was being playfully uncooperative as well. Dean was fairly lit himself and figured he’d just pass out face down on his own bed, fully clothed, and wake up late with a mild hang over but no regrets. He managed to get Sam rolled into bed, pulling the blankets up over him. When he leaned over to turn out the bedside lamp Sam grabbed his hand and pulled him close, so close Dean’s heart began to pound in his throat, his belly tingling.

“Come ‘ere,” Sam slurred. He gripped Dean’s hand tighter.

“Ok, big guy, settle down.” Dean kicked off his boots and slid into bed beside Sam. They lay on their sides, facing each other, still holding hands. They hadn’t been in the same bed in what seemed like forever. It was such a comfort, but at the same time it made Dean very nervous. His feelings for Sam were confused at best, and some of the deeper ones, the kinds of feelings Dean preferred to keep buried, had been rising to the surface lately.

“I miss you,” Sam whispered, sounding a lot less drunk than he had been acting, his other hand finding Dean’s stubbled cheek. His eyes were gorgeous even in the dark, his gaze penetrating.

Dean put his hand over Sam’s and swallowed hard. He struggled with the burning need to close the distance between them and kiss Sam, to slide on top of him and kiss him like he had years ago, to run his fingers through Sam’s hair and kiss his way down his jaw to his neck…

“I’m right here, Sammy,” he replied instead.

Sam smiled, his eyes fluttered closed, and within minutes he was snoring softly. Dean carefully took Sam’s hand from his cheek, kissed the palm, and held it gently to his chest. “I missed you, too,” he whispered, unsure if he actually saw Sam smile at his words.

*

Sam, sensing he was being watched, glanced up from his reading. Dean looked caught up in a day dream, the gaze of his intense green eyes distant, his lips slightly parted. Sam would have guessed he was reminiscing about a recent hook-up if he hadn’t been staring right at him. Every once in a while, over the years, he had caught Dean looking at him with this same burning intensity, like he wanted to make love to him for days. It took every ounce of self restraint Sam had to not indulge Dean when he looked at him like that. Maybe it was all in his head, his deep simmering desire for Dean screwing with his head, making him read into things that weren’t really there. But his hands itched with the need to grip Dean’s thighs, push them apart…

“Dean, you’re staring.”

Dean snapped back to the present. Golden green eyes, concerned and bright, regarded him over the back of the laptop.

“You find anything?” he asked.

“I think so,” Sam answered, looking back to his screen. “A handful of unexplained deaths over the last few months in Astrid, Oklahoma.”

“What, like gutted or eaten?”

“Nope. All died in their sleep.”

“That sound like our kind of thing?” Dean asked as he shoved the last enormous chunk of his burger into his mouth.

“Yeah. I mean, get this. They were all healthy, relatively young people who went to sleep and just never woke up again. One died in his sleep while driving.”

“You mean fell asleep and died in a crash?” Dean looked skeptical.

“His injuries were non-life threatening. His wife was in the car with him, and her statement says he fell asleep at the wheel. And there are a few other police reports. Looks like some of the victims began exhibiting strange behavior, violent outbursts, paranoia. One of them, just a week before she died, was hospitalized for sleep deprivation induced exhaustion.”

“So what do you think? Vengeful spirit? Hexes? Freddy Krueger?”

“I don’t know, but I think it’s worth a look.”

“Alright, Sammy. Get a doggie bag, we’re headed to Oklahoma.”

*

*

*

The Impala rolled into the small town of Astrid well after midnight. Sam shivered. Something about the place just felt _wrong_ somehow. It looked like Small Town America, but there were odd details, and a tangible undercurrent of dread.

Dean scowled as they passed the third coffee shack with its lights on, a handwritten sign declaring _Open All Night_. “That seem odd to you, Sam? How many 24 hour coffee shops does a town this small need?”

The only thing stranger than the plethora of all-night coffee shops was the fact they seemed to be doing descent business. People were up, out and about after midnight on a Tuesday night, getting their mocha on. Dean continued on toward the residential side of town, taking a tour of the victims’ neighborhoods. Few of the houses were dark. Lights were on, people could be seen through the windows puttering around kitchens or sitting in front of TVs.

“What the hell,” Sam said quietly, confused by the scene. They usually did a drive through of a place before beginning their investigations, and this late at night it was always dark and quiet, just the two of them and Baby cruising through sleeping streets, unheard and unobserved. But this place had mid-day level activity. Weird. Sam tapped into some residential WiFi and consulted his laptop. Astrid, Oklahoma did not boast about its bustling night-life, it did not have, with the exception of every coffee shop in town, any 24-hour businesses like mills or casinos or even a 24-hour pharmacy. In fact, according to their websites and Google listings, none of the coffee shops were 24 hours either. That must be a recent development.

Dean brought them back full circle to the main drag, and pulled into the Korner Koffee drive thru. The girl who met him at the window was young and had probably been pretty a month of late nights ago. Her hair was wadded up in a careless bun, she wore no makeup to try and cover the dark circles under her hollow, bloodshot eyes. She blinked slowly, her eyelids threatening to stay closed each time.

“What can I get for you?” she asked, her voice dry but friendly.

“We’ll take two of whatever your specialty is.” Dean offered Tired Girl his most charming smile. She returned it nicely, though somewhat weakly.

“How many shots?” she asked.

“Uh, two.”

Tired Girl raised her eyebrow at this, then shrugged. “Suit yourself, handsome.”

She returned after a few minutes with their coffees. Dean handed her cash, including a generous tip, and passed the coffees to Sam. Sam smirked when he noticed the cups were marked _Handsome_ and _Very Handsome._

“Must suck, working the graveyard shift,” Dean offered while she worked the register.

Tired Girl shrugged. “Nah. I like this shift, I guess.”

“Why is that?” Dean continued to lay on the charm.

“I don’t sleep well,” she answered flatly. “Same reason you boys are here and not home in bed. Have a good night.” She smiled with her best effort, and walked away from the window with a yawn.

Sam and Dean exchanged looks. Maybe there was a case here.

“Hey,” Dean said as they drove off, holding his cup up with a grin. “She wrote _Handsome_ on mine.”

“Yup,” Sam said with a smirk and shake of his head. He turned his cup so Dean wouldn’t read the _Very Handsome_ on it.

*

*

*

Dean woke strangely in the night. He felt hot, suffocated, tangled up in a thick blanket of sleep he couldn’t quite free himself from. His limbs were numb, unresponsive, he felt shaky but was unable to move. He struggled to open his eyes. He recognized the vague shadowy details of the motel room; the TV, the unimaginative framed landscapes, the flickering charging light of the laptop on the table. From the corner of his eye Dean caught another shape, large, featureless in the dark, looming too close for comfort.

_Sam_. 

Dean couldn’t turn his head so he rolled his eyes as far as he could, trying to get a better look. He flashed back to Detroit when Sam had spent the long, humid night watching him, waiting. It had to be Sam, on the bed with him now, moving over him, pressing down. _Smothering him_. It was getting harder to breath, each inhalation a long, drawn out fight. Dean’s heart hammered in his chest, the only part of him not paralyzed or slowed like a nightmare run. He couldn’t get enough breath in or move his mouth to plead with Sam to get off of him. He vision swam and went dark. He knew he must be dying but it felt like falling asleep. The pressure and suffocation slipped away, the panic crept back into the shadows. Dean felt himself drifting through a twilight sleep, just on this side of consciousness, floating under thin ice in a dark lake.

A sound reached him, disturbing the quiet numbness of his drowning. It was a small sound, a whimper, pained and frightened, a sound he would know anywhere. Something was hurting Sam. It was enough to help Dean break through the ice of his strange sleep.

Dean opened his groggy eyes, shaking off the hot and heavy grip of sleep, his bad dreams quickly forgotten in the face of Sam’s bad dreams. He rolled toward Sam’s bed and reached his hand out through the dark space between them.

“Sammy, you ok?”

Sam’s whimpering stopped. He instinctively found Dean’s hand, squeezed it hard. “Mm-hm,” he replied, his voice muffled partially by his pillow. Still half asleep, his head was clearing now that he could feel Dean, his bad dreams retreating, his tense muscles relaxing. He squeezed Dean’s hand again, and in response Dean tightened his grip on Sam’s.

“I got you,” Dean said, his voice thick with sleep, his grip on Sam’s hand strong and reassuring.

“I hate horses,” Sam mumbled. He forgot what he meant by that as soon as he said it, Dean’s touch soothing him, washing away the nightmare images like warm summer rain on sidewalk chalk monsters. He ran his thumb over the heel of Dean’s palm and wrist, grounding himself. This was real, this was good, _this was home_.

Dean snorted. “That’s funny, considering you _are_ half horse.” Through the darkness he heard Sam’s sleepy giggles, muffled by his pillow. Dean could just make out his shape, long and lean, sprawled out on his belly, taking up the whole bed. He felt Sam rub his warm index finger up and down the center of his palm, playful, almost suggestive if he read too much into it. “I’m talking about your face, asshole,” he laughed. The response of more sleepy giggles made him smile. Sam continued to idly play with Dean’s hand for a short time, his touch growing slower until Dean could tell he’d fallen comfortably back to sleep. Dean interlaced their fingers and held Sam’s hand through the short remainder of the night, quietly enjoying the simple pleasure of this contact with Sam, wondering how in the hell he’d fallen so in love with his own brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the long wait, I've been super busy!  
> Thank you for all your wonderful comments and kudos, it keeps me going! I hope you're still enjoying the story, there's a lot more to come.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam stepped out of the shower and toweled himself off. He hadn’t slept well the night before. Coffee before bed with only 5 hours to sleep was probably not the best idea. The shower had helped some but he still felt tired. He toweled his hair, turning his back to the mirror. He did not want to look at himself. Finally dry, he wrapped the towel around his hips. It was cheap and small, barely covering the chiseled distance between his hipbones, clinging to his ass and revealing a long mile of thigh with every step.

The muffled sound of music drifted in from the other room, ZZ Top if he wasn’t mistaken. _Shit._ Dean was back. He had gone out for coffee and whatever greasy, sugary crap he would consider their breakfast. He was back sooner than expected. Sam had left his bag and his suit on his bed. _Shit_. He wanted to dress privately, _needed_ to, didn’t want Dean to see him undressed, to see what he had done. Sam didn’t know which shamed him more, the perfectly minted empty vessel that had left a trail of wreckage while living without a soul, or what he had done to it once his soul was restored. Dean had stripped Sam down and shoved him into so many showers since recovering his soul that he had to be familiar with Sam’s somewhat freshly resurrected body. He would notice. He’d be angry, he’d say something.

When Sam had woken up at Bobby’s, soul properly anchored and more than a year of his life missing from his memory, one of the first things Dean had done was to march him into the bathroom.

“It’ll help, Sammy, I promise. You’ll feel better,” Dean insisted, stripping Sam’s clothes off and helping him into the tub like he was still a child. Sam felt another hot rush of shame. Dean had taken such good care of him, had always taken such good care of him, and he had already fucked it up so badly. He had only just gotten his soul back and all he had done was lust after his brother and… He glanced down at the scars. Dean would be so angry, so disappointed. Sam was already so ashamed of everything he had done over the years, why couldn’t he just stop fucking up?

When Dean came home from Hell he quickly developed an obsession with showers. If he was upset by something, had seen something particularly ugly on a job, or had woken from a nightmare, he would go straight to the shower. It was like he could never get clean enough. Sometimes Sam would hear him screaming and punching walls over the sound of spraying water. One night when they had squatted in an abandoned burned out house, Sam found Dean standing shirtless in the pouring rain, sobbing, face turned up to the sky as if praying that the rain alone could make him clean. There had been times when he had stayed in the shower for so long Sam had to pick the lock, once even kicking the bathroom door down, to reach Dean, who was usually blacked out and unresponsive, to turn off the water that had long run cold, dry him off and wrap him in towels and blankets, wait for him to warm up and come round.

Dean never seemed to remember these fugue states, or at least denied any knowledge of them, leaving Sam the lone witness to how deeply and viciously Hell had scarred Dean’s soul. Every time he carried Dean out of a freezing shower, every time he held him through the night as he fought dream demons, Sam saw firsthand the damage Hell had done to his brother, and he was forced to watch with the knowledge that Dean had done it all for him. It had been his fault Dean was torn to pieces and dragged to Hell, tortured until he became something he loathed, smothered in so much filth he would never feel clean again. Dean had done nothing wrong, his only crime had been saving Sam’s life, and yet he would suffer Hell’s fury for the rest of his life. Sam, on the other hand, had released Lucifer from the cage, nearly caused the end of the world, lost his humanity to his demon blood addiction, and been the cause of more deaths than he could even count. And yet, Dean and Death had decided he was too fucking delicate to endure his own Hell flashbacks. Dean could suffer while Sam slept well. The shame of being a monster burned deeper.

“Sharp Dressed Man,” was cranked up. Dean was probably rocking out and wouldn’t notice Sam slip out of the bathroom to grab his clothes.

Sam took a deep breath, opened the bathroom door and froze, his eyes wide, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp. He felt flush, a wave of heat cascading over his skin. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He sank against the doorframe, dizzy, his heart quivering in his chest, his gut and limbs tingling. The world seemed to melt away and leave only one thing in his field of vision.

Dean had been to enough strip clubs and banged enough strippers to pick up a few moves, all of which were on blatant display now, along with every inch of his exquisitely built body that wasn’t covered by his black boxer briefs. He danced wantonly, his back to the bathroom door, lost in the music, every muscle in his back and legs flexing under his smooth skin as he swung his ass like a pro. He was unaware of Sam watching him, but he was keenly aware of the chance he might catch a glimpse, and it fueled his need to perform.

Sam could barely hear the music over the ringing in his ears. His breath caught in his throat as Dean spread his thighs wide and dipped down, placed one hand on the floor and shot his ass straight up, arched his back and writhed back up. Sam lost his breath in an involuntary huff as Dean started swinging his ass again, and he became sharply aware of the growing erection warping the worn fabric of the towel that barely covered it. In a perfect world he would just let the towel fall away, step stealthily across the room, closing the distance between them in a few long strides, come up behind Dean and slide his arms around his rolling torso. He would dance with him, or pull up a chair and invite him to dance for him….

Sam clenched his jaw and glanced to his bed – the one closest to the bathroom, thank God – and his garment bag. It was clearly empty. _Fuck._ His eyes shot to the ironing board Dean was grinding in front of and saw his suit. _Jesus Christ_ Dean was ironing it for him. Everything looked like shit when you pulled it out of a duffel bag so they always had to iron their fed threads before going out to interview people. He stumbled back a step as Dean ran his hands seductively down his sculpted sides and ass. He had to at least get his boxers and undershirt on, and get rid of his now substantial erection, before Dean saw him.

Sam stepped quickly out of the bathroom and cleared his throat. “Uh, nice moves, there, Dean,” he said jokingly. He snatched up his duffle bag and held it front of himself, turning away before Dean could acknowledge him.

Dean grinned back at Sam over his shoulder. “You’re just jealous,” he said with a wink.

 _Jealous isn’t the word I’d use,_ Sam thought, quickly making his way back into the bathroom.

Dean watched over his shoulder. That sad excuse for a towel clung to Sam’s fine ass for dear life and left nothing to the imagination. He felt a hot surge of desire, a need to drop to his knees and bite through that towel into the meat of Sam’s ass and make him moan, make him understand. A need to pull the towel away and suck a dark bruise into his flawless skin, then grip his hips and turn him around, explain with his body what he couldn’t with words.

Dean touched the iron to the inside of his wrist to bring himself out of that little day dream. _No._ He couldn’t do that to Sam. He wouldn’t. He looked at the small burn and choked back his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sharp Dressed Man" is my all time favorite ZZ Top song. It played on the radio a couple weeks ago, and I've had Stripper Dean stuck in my head evet since. And I figured we could use a light hearted moment before this gets dark.  
> I'm going to start adding soundtrack notes. Music is a huge part of Supernatural, and I often have 1 song on repeat while writing a scene.  
> Thank you so much for reading, and for kudos and comments!


	14. Chapter 14

Dean stared down into the open body cavity at the red mess that used to be a living man. As many times as he’d seen dead bodies, it always disturbed him to see the delicate truth of viscera, the behind-the-scenes architecture of life, to realize that in the end we are nothing more than meat, and the knowledge of just how many things could dig into that meat, take it, claim it, and use it for their own devices gave him chills. Something about this body in particular seemed off. It looked… _juicier_ than your average stiff, as if the organs had been squeezed like lemons. There was a smell to it as well, subtle, only detectible if you weren’t looking for it, a tease of something other than the fleshy tang of cadaver. Dean couldn’t put his finger on it, vaguely recognizable but unfamiliar. He logged it away in his brain. The smell was a clue, he knew this for sure.

He wrinkled his nose and looked up at Sam, who was listening intently and taking notes as the coroner rambled on about possible causes of death. Sam looked dead serious, everything you expect from a Federal agent, though Dean could see his eyes darting around the room, taking mental notes of everything he saw, in those moments when the coroner was looking away. His eyes met Dean’s and darkened, a quick furrow of his eyebrows, a message conveyed in the space of a heartbeat. _Something is very wrong here_.

Dean nodded his head once, taking his cue from Sam. He watched the coroner, Ed, babbling on like an over-friendly drunk about inconsistent findings and clinical correlations with the latest victim. This guy was a piece of work. He had more bags than a bus depot under dilated, bloodshot eyes. He stumbled over his words, seemed unable to concentrate on what he was talking about, yawned frequently, and swayed when he closed his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in years. Sam had taken control of the conversation, steering Ed with his questions, constantly pulling him back from the side roads of random thoughts, pumping him for as much information was possible before he succumbed to the sleep deprivation induced mental breakdown he appeared to be barreling towards.

Dean’s concentration fixed on Sam and the coroner did the trick. He caught another whiff of the odd smell haunting the corpse. This time he was ready for it, ready to catch and catalogue the scent. _Animal_. Definitely not human, or any monster he’d encountered before. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew it was important, too out of place to be ignored.

All three men turned toward the large double doors as an orderly pushed through with a gurney carrying a sheeted body. “Next customer,” he announced dryly.

“Lucky bastard,” Ed muttered, looking at the new arrival. “Excuse me,” he said to Sam and Dean, then went to the orderly to do his chain of custody paperwork.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. What was this guy’s problem?

_Lucky_? Dean mouthed.

Sam’s face crinkled. These cases just got weirder and weirder. He shook his head with a quiet snort.

“Yeah, so anyway… What was I saying?” the coroner asked as the returned to the autopsy table.

“Lucky?” Sam inquired.

“Hmm?” Ed blinked slowly, a drowsy sloth of a man who probably shouldn’t be handling sharp instruments.

“You said, ‘lucky bastard,’,” Sam prompted, pointing to the newly arrived corpse.

“Oh, yeah, huh,” Ed laughed nervously. He dragged his hand across his face, his exhaustion blatant. “I mean, shit, that guy’s finally getting some rest, huh? Died in his sleep allegedly. Must be nice. Sleep, I mean. Just getting some sleep, like, actual sleep. Peaceful, ya know? Just sleeping, without hearing that little voice nagging at you all night…” he trailed off, his eyes going distant, his face slack.

“Little voice?” Sam asked, steering the coroner back into the conversation. He was still taking notes, though he had stopped writing.

“ _Get off me, get off me, stop_ ,” Ed replied in a high voice, followed by another nervous laugh.

Dean’s eyes widened. Sam’s expression didn’t change, he remained the professional agent, yet Dean could see the muscles along the side of his face flex as he clenched his jaw, visible where his chestnut hair was tucked behind his ear.

“Whose voice is that, Ed?” Sam asked, his voice stern and even like a cold, glassy lake.

A storm of emotions tangled Ed’s face into a jumbled expression. “I mean, you boys went to college. We all… make mistakes, do dumb shit, right?” He looked back and forth between Sam and Dean, pleading for a look of understanding or empathy that he clearly wasn’t seeing. “It was just a mistake. A tiny mistake. Nothing came of it, my parents settled out of court, it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, maybe it’s the difference between being a big time surgeon stuffing fake tits in Hollywood and being an ME in Bumfuck, Oklahoma, who knows, but nothing to lose sleep over. I mean, I was drunk, and come on, she was passed out in my room. That’s not really, it’s not really _rape_ is it? Just a mistake. If they say _no_ it’s rape, yeah, but not, I don’t think, if they’re in your room like that. It was 30 years ago. I never lost any sleep over it.”

“Did she say no, Ed?” Dean asked, distracting the nervous coroner from Sam’s intensifying glare. Sam had several inches and pounds of muscle on the shorter, flabby man fidgeting beside him, and his clenched jaw and evolving snarl made Dean think Ed might shit his pants soon.

“Well, I was pretty drunk that night, and I, uh, I always told myself she didn’t. But, it came back to me a couple weeks ago. I haven’t thought about it in decades. And then, just all of a sudden, I have a dream about it. Now I can’t get her voice out of my head.” He swallowed hard. “She said no. She said, ‘No, no, stop, get off me.’ I can’t not hear it. Haven’t lost an hour of sleep over it in 30 years and now… it’s all I think about. Alone in this room working on a body and I can hear her crying.”

Ed’s face changed suddenly, drawn back from his reverie by Sam’s towering glare. “Hey,” he stammered, raising his hands defensively. “You’re not gonna arrest me or anything, are you? I mean, we settled out of court. Isn’t there a statute of limitations of something? It was a dumb ass kid mistake.”

Ed was saved by the bell when his phone rang. He quickly excused himself to answer it. Sam turned his head and looked at Dean with wide, furious eyes. He made a few quick hand gestures to his brother. _You watch the door, I’m gonna shoot him._

Dean shook his head and held up a hand. _Hang on_. He approached the coroner and waited for him to finish his call. What the hell would possess him to suddenly confess to a rape from 30 years ago to a pair of strangers? Dean didn’t like it, he didn’t like any of it, and he sure as hell didn’t like Ed. But Ed was showing symptoms of extreme sleep deprivation and it had to be somehow related to whatever was going on in Astrid.

Dean put his arm around the coroner’s shoulder after he hung up, placing his hand firmly on the back of his neck. “Come here, Ed,” he said sternly, guiding the man away from Sam, toward the far corner of the room. “Now, I’m not going to arrest you, statute of limitations and all, but that won’t stop me from swinging by your house one night and kneecapping you, understand?” He smiled with only his mouth; his eyes promised violence. He squeezed Ed’s neck for emphasis.

Ed nodded nervously, his eyes flashing back to Sam.

“Steer clear of Agent Gallop,” Dean warned. “You know ‘good cop, bad cop’?”

Ed nodded again.

“Well, I’m the good cop,” Dean said with another dangerous smile. “And we ain’t playin’. Now, you find anything unusual in either of these bodies you give me a call.”

.

“Peaceful Waters Center For Hypnosis, Sam? Really?” Dean asked as they pulled up in front of the center, a dolled-up store front downtown that reeked of patchouli and good karma, its large windows draped with billowing, tie-dyed fabrics to protect the identity, and possibly the dignity, of its clientele.

“Some of our vics were being treated here for sleep problems,” Sam replied gently. He knew Dean had his own sleep demons, but was too stubborn to admit it and ask for help, so he took affront to anything that resembled help, which Sam took as a cry for help in itself. He also made offhand jokes about AA from time to time. Sam sighed to himself. One day he would slay his brother’s inner demons, make him whole again, watch him sleep peacefully, smile, eat, enjoy a sunset. But today wasn’t that day.

“Witches,” Dean grumbled.

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, you don’t know it isn’t. Do you have a knife?”

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Of course he had a knife, holstered under his right arm, the large custom made silver Bowie with 

custos fratris mei

inscribed down the blade that Dean had given him years ago. Dean knew he did everything but shower with that knife, even slept with it under his pillow because though they were hunters they were also prey.

“Yes,”

“A silver one?” Dean worried too much.

Sam turned to him suddenly. “Do you want to see it?” he asked gruffly. Their eyes locked and for a split second both their hearts stopped.

Dean felt his lips grow warm and broke the eye contact first. He knew Sam had his knife on him, but they were about to split up, and what if—

“Just drop me off here,” Sam said, turning his attention back to the Hypnosis Center, “and you go talk to the shrink.”

Dean didn’t like it. Since they’d rolled into town he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling they were being watched, or more accurately, _sniffed at_. He had woken up this morning with the dirty, violated sense of having been touched in his sleep. Maybe the vics had gotten that same feeling, that’s why they stopped sleeping, keeping themselves awake any way they could until the exhaustion finally won in the end.

Dean drove off reluctantly as Sam entered the Hypnosis Center.

Sam looked around the empty waiting room, taking mental notes while looking for anything out of place; dark sigils in the Buddhism-centric artwork, hex bags, or traces of sulfur. He slipped his EMF detector out of his pocket, first looking to the open door behind the unmanned reception desk for anyone coming, but got only a few mild hits. Satisfied with his cursory investigation he tapped the bell on the desk.

The small man that appeared looked healthy and well-rested. Sam imagined he spent his evenings enjoying some chamomile tea and tantric sex before settling down in a soft, pillow engulfed bed for a solid 8 hours of restful sleep. Sam laid on the charm and got access to patient records, as well as a hot cup of that chamomile tea.

“A few months ago it really picked up here,” the man, who’d introduced himself as Forest, said with a shrug. “We’ve been seeing more clients for sleep issues, when it used to be mostly weight loss and smoking cessation.”

“Why do you think that is?” Sam asked, glancing up from the file he was skimming.

Forest narrowed his eyes at Sam, just for a moment. He had been a hypnotherapist for a long time and had seen a lot of people who had been through a lot of things. He saw in Sam a handsome and polite professional, but he also saw deeper below the surface of his charm. Through the vigilance of his eyes to the readiness of his body language Sam told a story he didn’t intend to share. Forest evaluated him in a heartbeat. This man did not sleep well. He had been abused at some point, possibly sexually. He was hyper-aware of his surroundings, ready for anything. He was more heavily armed than the average FBI agent, carrying at least one weapon other than his standard issue firearm, if not two.

“Stress is my guess,” Forest offered. “When people get too stressed they usually wind up with insomnia or over eating. Insomnia just seems to be the one most effecting people recently. Sometimes stress can be a trigger. Let’s say, a really shitty day at work, can produce a feeling, an… _emotion_ , that triggers a memory of another time when that emotion was experienced. The brain then stresses about this past trauma, causing more stress, which causes more insomnia, and then you have a feedback loop that spirals out of control. As you can see by the patient records, many of our clients here were dealing with past traumas that they felt surfaced out of the blue.”

Sam nodded, taking written and mental notes, his eyes going back to the patient records.

“You know,” Forest began, his tone soothing, “I offer free hypnotherapy sessions for military and law enforcement. I mean, you guys are out there in the front lines, helping people. _Saving_ people.”

Sam smirked at Forest’s remark. If only he knew.

Forest handed Sam his card. “If you ever want to talk about anything else not related to this case, or if you’re interested in trying a hypnosis session, please, call me.”

.

Dean had less luck with the psychologist. She confirmed that, yes, two of the vics had been under her care, and yes, it was for insomnia related problems. She wasn’t willing to offer up much more than that. She had the look of a woman who took good care of herself in her later years, and probably always had. Whatever her patients’ problems may have been, she herself was clearly not losing any sleep over it. She was polite but with a touch of entitlement, just enough to keep from feeling she had to buy into the stunning agent’s bullshit.

“I might let you bend me over my desk,” she said bluntly, “but I don’t think I’ll let you look at any of my patient files until you bring me a warrant. And, between you and me, Agent Smith, I think you’re much more likely to bend me over this desk than to come back with a legitimate warrant for these records.” She folded her hands together and smiled slyly at Dean’s shocked expression.

He cleared his throat. “Maybe next time,” he said, excusing himself from her office. He didn’t think there was really anything here to push further about. There was no visible sign of any hoodoo or demonic involvement. The psych doctor was a bitch but not likely a witch. It was getting late, time to meet back up with Sam for dinner and see what he had found out at the hippy dippy hypnosis bullshit place. They’d spent more than half the day dealing with Ed the rapist down at the coroner’s office, trying to pick his brain about the people they thought were likely the victims of some supernatural force. He only had one body on hand, the rest had already been laid to rest, and jogging his memory was ridiculously time consuming.

Dean watched the darkness creep in, draining the color from the world and painting it with shadows. The chill of twilight descended. By the time he made it to the diner the air had grown stagnant. Stifling. Not necessarily hot, it was a little chilly, but it was still and close. He felt vaguely smothered. Once more he felt he was being touched or tasted by something he couldn’t see or quite perceive.

He locked up the car and spotted Sam through the window. Why did he have to look so good? Dean’s gut fluttered and his heart rolled in his chest while he watched Sam, intently working at his laptop, reading his notes, checking his watch. Sam turned to gaze out the window, his brow furrowed, his eyes searching. The moment he caught sight of Dean his face lit up in a Christmas morning smile. Dean felt his lips grow warm again.

.

“The shrink was no help,” Dean said around a mouthful of waffle. Breakfast for dinner had sounded great. “She told me she was treating two of our vics for insomnia, and then she propositioned me!”

Sam chuckled around a bite of grilled chicken. “No shit?”

“No shit. She asked me bend her over the desk.” Dean shivered. He had had enough of people’s weird bullshit today. Ghosts, demons, whatever, bring it on. There are clear lines and rules there. Humans, though. Anything goes and he hated it.

“Well, the hypnotherapist was very helpful. All of our vics that were seen at the hypnosis center were seeking treatment for insomnia, nightmares, and recovered traumatic memories.” Sam subconsciously touched the therapist’s card in his pocket, tracing the edges with one long, elegant finger. “But no EMF, hex bags, sulfur, or cold spots.”

Dean shoved more waffle into his mouth. At this point he doubted it would be worth it to break into either office over night. It might prove more difficult than usual since no one in this town seemed to sleep. Before he could continue on that train of thought he became aware once more of something close to him, sniffing or taking a taste of the air around him like a snake. The hair on the back of his neck rose up. What the fuck?

Sam cocked his head, a look of concern crossing his face like midnight clouds crossing a bright moon.

Dean shook it off and took another bite. “What, if anything, did you get from our pal Ed?”

Sam resumed eating and reviewing his notes. “All the vics, or at least those we assume are vics of our mystery monster, died in their sleep. No cause of death could be determined. He signed them off as heart failure just to tie up loose ends, but he said he was unable to find any real evidence of that. Most of them were in bad shape due to extreme sleep deprivation. The guy on the table was the one who died while driving, and Ed said there was something really off about the body.”

“He looked like he’d been juiced,” Dean offered. “Did you see him? Like every organ had been squeezed dry and then put back in place.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Ed said he appeared to have been crushed from the inside.”

“So, we think there have been, what, six, seven vics? No clear cause of death on any, only one looked suspicious. Did they have anything in common?”

“Five of them were being treated for insomnia.”

“But not by the same clinic.”

“No.”

“Are we sure it’s insomnia?”

Sam cocked his head again. “They were all sleep deprived.”

“Yeah, but insomnia is when you can’t sleep, right? Look around. The all-night coffee shops, the lit up houses, people milling around at all hours. It’s not that they can’t sleep. Sammy, they don’t want to sleep.”

Sam flashed back to what Ed had said about hearing the girl’s voice every time he tried to sleep. He had been compiling his notes from his talk with Forest on the laptop while waiting for Dean. “You might be right. Check this out.”

Dean reached out to turn the laptop so he could read it. Sam reached to turn to toward him at the same time. Their hands brushed against each other, Dean’s hand grasping the top of Sam’s as Sam grasped the laptop to turn it. In the space of a single breath their hearts seemed to stop and sync up. Sam looked from Dean’s hand to his face. Dean’s eyes had that dreamy quality again, like he was lust-drunk and gazing at his lover. He subconsciously squeezed Sam’s had before quickly letting go.

“So, ugh…” Sam cleared his throat and turned the laptop to Dean. “I’m assuming seven vics. Five were in treatment of one sort or another for sleep problems, two seeing the shrink and three going the hypnosis route. One had also gotten a prescription for anxiety meds less than two weeks before her death. All seven died in their sleep of undetermined causes, one with unexplained trauma. All three who sought help from the hypnosis clinic seem to have been experiencing some sort of recovered memory or past trauma thing they were dealing with which had recently surfaced. Other people here seem to be experiencing similar symptoms to our vics, including Ed, who fits the recovered memory and sleep deprivation pattern. And this place creeps me the hell out. I think we have a case here, but I have no idea what it is yet. We should talk to the victim’s families tomorrow, and I’ll dive into the lore.”

Dean nodded, staring at the laptop screen, his eyes no longer moving since he had finished reading already. He couldn’t look at Sam. Not just yet. Not until he could pull himself together and find something to joke or bitch about to distract himself from thinking about touching Sam’s hand. It had been warm, and solid, and real, and he wanted those hands all over him.

Sam scowled slightly, clenching his jaw. Dean was just staring at the laptop. He had finished reading, but he didn’t look up. Sam wanted Dean to look at him again. Look at him _like that_. Like he wanted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. Life gets crazy, but I'll keep updating as frequently as possible.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and for the kudos and comments. I really appreciate the feedback :)
> 
> "When The Levee Breaks" Led Zeppelin


	15. Chapter 15

Sam eased Dean slowly back, climbing onto the bed with him, straddling his thighs with one long leg at a time, hands gently cupping his face, his tall frame bent sharply to ensure he never once broke the kiss. Dean melted into Sam’s mouth. His kiss was deep, deliberate and elegant, more like he was eating a delicate piece of fruit than seducing his brother, and Dean had never felt anything like it. He reclined until he was propped on his elbows, hungrily sucking at Sam’s lip as he stretched his powerful arms out on either side of him to rest on the bed, supporting his shirtless torso just inches from Dean’s, close enough to share body heat but not yet touching skin to skin. The taste and feel of Sam on his tongue ignited Dean’s nerves with sweet holy fire. His skin flushed, his nipples hardened, a sweat broke at the back of his neck. He trembled, helpless under Sam’s ministrations, taking everything Sam gave him and on the verge of begging for more. No one had ever kissed him like this, with such slow burning passion, indulgent and unhurried. He had kissed Sam twice in his life. Both times were rough and desperate, once even violent and blood slicked, but Sam kissed him now as though the world had stopped just for them to taste, feel, and explore each other, for as long as they wanted, and right now Dean wanted it to last forever. He was certain he could die in Sam’s arms, and awaken in Heaven still in his arms.

Sam rolled his tongue once more and withdrew it from Dean’s mouth. He kissed Dean with closed lips, nuzzled him softly, drew his tongue across his lips, nuzzled him again, urging him down. Dean moaned against Sam’s lips and brought his hands up to tangle in Sam’s hair, falling back onto the bed. Sam licked Dean’s lips again, then penetrated his mouth with his velvety tongue. Dean opened his mouth in response, welcoming Sam in, moaning again as their tongues slid around each other, old lovers reacquainting themselves. Their heartbeats fell in time together. Dean inhaled deeply when Sam exhaled, breathing him in, and when Sam did the same, sharing Dean’s breath with the sweetest pleasure, every muscle in Dean’s body involuntarily flexed with the rising tide of emotions.

Sam slipped his knee carefully between Dean’s legs, coaxing him to open, and open he did, spreading his legs wide to accommodate Sam’s muscular body. Sam lowered himself down, nestling in between Dean’s strong thighs, stretching himself across Dean’s body, smiling at Dean’s sharp intake of breath as their bare chests finally came together. Dean, so lost in the kiss his head was spinning, bent his knees up and squeezed his thighs around Sam’s hips. Sam responded by grinding into him, his erection a commanding presence, making itself known as it strained against his jeans. Dean instinctively ground back against Sam, arching his back as the chain reaction of friction raced up his spine. He dug his nails into Sam’s shoulders. Sam ground against him harder, maddeningly slow, teasing him with a promised rhythm. Dean moaned into Sam’s mouth. The kiss grew in depth and intensity, drowning Dean’s doubts and fears as he gave himself over to Sam.

Sam lifted Dean’s left arm gently over his head, caressing the underside from his wrist to bicep. His skin was so excited he could feel the tracks of Sam’s fingers even after they passed over his flesh. Sam did the same with Dean’s right arm, caressing so softly where Dean expected to be manhandled. He had been raised to equate affection with violence, and though he’d never gotten rough with a woman, he had hurt Sam in the past and expected it in return. But Sam was gentle with him, replacing fear with anticipation, soothing hurt with comfort. He kissed his way softly across Dean’s stubbled jaw, down his throat, biting tenderly here and there, drawing designs on his skin with the tip of his warm tongue, whispering their words against his flesh, _I got you. I love you. I will always be here. It’s ok._

Dean gasped Sam’s name, held his own hands tightly to keep from bringing them down and digging into Sam, scratching his back and shoulders, pulling his hair, throwing him over and pinning him to the bed. He didn’t know how to love Sam without hurting him so he stayed put, letting Sam show him how to feel good, how to feel loved, how to touch and be touched without rage.

Their mouths joined, tongues entwined like their souls, and Dean wanted Sam, needed him, wanted to feel him deep inside. They were made for each other, and Dean needed to be closer, to feel how they fit together like corresponding puzzle pieces, to be in that perfect place with his arms and legs tangled tight around Sam, with Sam’s cock and tongue buried deep inside him. Dean knew much more of this slow grind, electric touch voodoo Sam was performing on him would leave him whimpering and coming in his pants.

Sam slowly pulled away with one last, long suck on Dean’s lower lip. After a moment when he didn’t return, Dean opened his eyes to find him. His blood froze. Sam loomed over him, expressionless. His eyes were all wrong. Cold, dark, _soulless._

_No. No, Sam, no, no, no…_ Dean tried to cry out but found he had no voice. He couldn’t open his mouth. He couldn’t suck in enough breath to scream. His jaw trembled with the effort.

Sam cocked his head. “Really, Dean?” he asked, his voice a mockery of disbelief. “Your own brother? You really do belong in Hell.”

Dean struggled uselessly, exhausting himself without moving a muscle. His heart thrashing in his chest, his breath measured and shallow, his body lying helpless under Sam’s cold gaze, his eyes wide and unblinking, unable to shut out the nightmare abomination that was his brother.

Sam pulled himself up to sit on Dean, drawing his legs up on either side of Dean’s chest, glaring down at him between bent knees. He smiled at Dean’s helplessness, reached out with one finger and pressed it deep into the space between his collar bones and his throat, feeling his tachycardic pulse, watching with dark fascination the panic in his eyes that his body was unable to act on.

“Is this—” Sam taunted, his voice dry and spiteful. “Is this why Dad wanted you to put a bullet in me? To protect me from you?”

Dean’s eyes blurred with tears, the only response he was allowed as his body betrayed him, so hypersensitive everything felt magnified, feeling too much yet unmoving. He didn’t remember Sam ever being this heavy, and he was getting heavier by the minute, slowly crushing him. He felt his breath growing weaker and his heart thrashed harder, and he knew he would die soon. He struggled harder, breaking a panic sweat, but still his body remained frozen and vulnerable.

Sam stroked Dean’s damp cheek. “It could be worse, Dean,” he purred. “I could have just run away from you again. I know that’s what really scares you, so much more than this.” Sam blinked and his eyes became a swirling, glowing yellow. If Dean had been able to move he would have been screaming uncontrollably. He had seen this face before, Sam’s face with Azazel’s eyes, so many times in Hell. It always meant the most unspeakable torture, designed to turn him, make him hate his brother with every atom in his body, to surrender all hope.

“But running away wouldn’t be as much fun,” Sam said with a wink. He seemed to grow heavier still, crushing Dean down into the bed, squeezing small sobs from his throat, as the yellow clouds in his eyes danced to the scattered rhythm of Dean’s seizing heart. His vision began to fail, overtaken by dark spots and flashes of light as his brain was starved of oxygen.

_Dean, you’re dreaming_. It sounded like Sam’s voice but his mouth wasn’t moving. Sam turned his head to the side. Dean’s eyes followed his line of sight. A large, dark shadow by the bed towered over them. Sam looked back to Dean and grinned.

“We were too loud, Dean. We woke little brother. Here we are, Sammy prowling in the dark, and you seem to be unable to move. I think we’ve been here before… What do you think your chances are this time? I bet he slits your throat and rolls in your blood while touching himself. What a way to go, huh, Dean? You’d love it.”

Dean could barely see through the tears and dark flashes, his ears ringing, but could feel himself gaining more control over his limbs, his nerves remembering who was in charge. Yellow-eyed Sam was fading away with a dark chuckle, and the other Sam, the one lurking in the night shadows just waiting for his chance to kill Dean was coming into sharper focus.

Shadow Sam reached down and touched Dean, gripped his shoulder, and broke the spell. Dean’s lungs burned with the sudden sharp intake of air, gasping so hard he nearly choked. He flinched violently, scrambled away from Sam across the bed.

“Show me your eyes!” Dean coughed, trying to get his body fully back under his own control.

“What?”

“Turn on the light and show me your fucking eyes!” He was pressed back against the headboard, breathing hard.

Sam switched on the bedside lamp, quickly threw his arm up to shield against the sudden burst of light.

“Your eyes, Sam,” Dean growled.

Sam lowered his arm, looking at Dean with confusion, trying not to squint his clear, hazel eyes. “Dean?”

Dean signed in relief and sank down a little, resting the back of his head on the wall. He felt the tears on his face and wiped them away, dragging his shaking hands over his eyes and down his cheeks.

“Are you ok?” Sam asked, reaching for his brother.

Dean quickly waved him off, twisting just enough to avoid his touch. “I’m fine. Just go,” he grumbled, still sweaty and tear stained. He watched as Sam nodded sadly, and walked away to the bathroom. He was wearing pj pants and a long sleeve shirt, unusual for Sam, and it occurred to Dean that he’d been covering himself up a lot more recently. The realization felt like a kick in the chest, and he felt the hot rush of tears come again.

Dean decided it wasn’t worth trying to sleep again tonight. He sent Sam back to bed without so much as looking at him, and stayed up organizing his hunting bag and cleaning his weapons. He eventually dozed off, just before dawn, with his face resting on his arm on the table.

Sam lay on his side facing away from Dean, listening to him disassembling, cleaning, reassembling, sharpening. It was as soothing for Sam to listen to as it was for Dean to do. The Winchester version of meditation. He listened to Dean’s bare footsteps approach across the carpet, felt Dean’s warm hand rest on his shoulder and squeeze almost imperceptibly. He felt Dean reach his other hand under his pillow and carefully draw out his knife and return to the table with it. And though he knew Dean had been angry at him earlier, even though he didn’t understand why, he drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Dean taking care of his knife and gun for him, feeling cared for.

Somewhere in the twilight space between waking and sleep Sam felt detoured, pushed deep into someplace hot and sticky and suffocating. He felt vaguely touched, without his permission, hands or _something_ all over him, slipping under his skin, pushing into his brain, filling the empty space behind his eyes. He was unable to roll away, and when he struggled he was pushed deeper down into dark, choking water. Something felt around in him, poking and prodding at all his nooks and crannies and secret corners. It came across the wall in his mind and slithered up and down the brickwork, exploring, testing.

_No,_ Sam thought. _You can’t touch that. It’s mine. Please._

Something like a finger pushed into the mortar between bricks, twisting, penetrating, making itself a small hole. As it forced its way through, the temperature around Sam began to drop rapidly. He shivered violently, felt his mouth drying and blistering, felt his gut begin to ache with hunger. He heard a thousand whispering voices all at once. One began to stand out, whispering seductively in his ear, _Crawl to me._

Sam fought back hard and was suddenly plunged deeper into the black water. He was suffocated until he lost awareness, eventually drifted back up to a normal sleep pattern.

Sam woke in the morning to find Dean standing at the foot of his bed in boxers and a t-shirt, bobbing his head to _Old Time Rock and Roll_ by Bob Seger and brushing his teeth.

“Rise an’ shine, Sammy,” he said around his toothbrush, seemingly over last night’s weirdness.

Sam regarded him with one open eye and smiled.

Dean waved his hand around in front of his face. “Dude, take a shower or something. You smell like a barnyard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comment are much appreciated, I'd love to know what you think of the story so far :)
> 
> "All I Want For Christmas" by Chase Holfelder (this specific version, find it on Youtube, it's amazing.)


	16. Chapter 16

“His doctor said underlying heart trouble may have been causing his insomnia,” the small, grieving woman said, her voice catching on her tears. “If I had known how tired he was I never would have let him drive…” she trailed off, wiping at her eyes.

Dean watched from the dining room as Sam offered a comforting hand to the widow. It never ceased to amaze him how such a strong, towering man as his brother could make himself seem so small, so unimposing, in order to gain trust and build a rapport with the victims of the things they hunted or those left behind. This woman was barely more than five feet tall, thin as a bird, made even more delicate in her grief as she mourned the sudden loss of her husband in what she not only believed to be a tragic accident, but one she herself could have prevented. Sam’s head was lowered, his shoulders rolled forward, somehow folding his broad, 6’4” frame down to a shape more relatable to the woman. He spoke in gentle tones, his voice a soothing lullaby even to Dean’s ears, holding both her tiny, shivering hands in one of his own large, elegant ones.

“Did you notice any unusual behavior? Did your husband seem out of sorts?” Sam continued with a discrete nod toward Dean. _Go look around._

“He was having nightmares. Bad ones. He, um,” she paused, clearly uncomfortable. She leaned closer to Sam, and he leaned closer to her in return, creating a safe space for her to talk freely. “He was, when he was little, he was, um… _abused_ , you know?” Her voice was barely above a whisper but Sam heard every word loud and clear. “He had never talked about it. I never even knew, until a few weeks ago. He, um, suddenly he wouldn’t stop talking about it. He said he kept dreaming about it and that’s why he couldn’t sleep.” She began to cry again, apologizing for her inability to stop, wiping her eyes and nose frantically. Sam looked at her with compassionate eyes and allowed her time to compose herself. When she was ready to continue talking, Sam steered her gently back to his line of questioning.

Dean roamed through the house, sweeping the EMF detector in each room, looking in all the nooks and crannies for any sign of spellcraft, trying to get a feel for the victim and his wife, determine if either of them was into anything sketchy. Sometimes perfectly ordinary looking people were secretly into some shady business. People could be crazy like that. Sometimes perfectly ordinary looking people turned out to be witches, demons, shifters, any kind of sick monster, playing suburban human dress-up.

That didn’t appear to be the case here. He found nothing out of the ordinary, and got only mild hits on the EMF, which could mean residual activity or nothing at all, specifically centered around what he guessed was the vic’s side of the bed. The closer he approached the more residual EMF activity he picked up, along with something else, something just outside the reach of his senses. _A scent_. Animal, maybe, or farmyard. It was too faint to tell, lingering just on the periphery of his sense of smell.

He stopped before he got too close to the bed, the hairs on the back of neck rising up. He quietly slipped his small flashlight out of his pocket, clicked it on, and knelt down. He was searching under the bed when his phone rang.

“You mentioned your husband had a heart condition?”

The widow shook her head. “Not that we knew of. After he… died, they said it was heart failure. I thought he had just dozed off, you know he was barely sleeping by then. His doctor said he probably had an undiagnosed heart condition that made it hard for him to sleep, and then his heart just gave out.”

“And what about his bad dreams?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think he ever talked to his doctor about that. I know he went to that hypnosis place once or twice but he said it didn’t help.” Her lip began to tremble once more, and Sam placed his hand softly on her forearm, waiting out the wave of tears before he asked more questions.

Dean stepped quietly back into the living room. He shook his head, his lips tight. _Nada_.

Sam glanced up to Dean, then offered his card and condolences to the widow, and thanked her for her time.

*

“Ed called,” Dean said around a larger than necessary bite of cherry pie. “Turns out the _lucky bastard_ was a lady. Young, too. Twenty-three years old, died in her sleep of heart failure, after being arrested twice last week for suspected vandalism. Specifically, slashing tires in bar parking lots. No prior record. That sound weird to you?”

Sam heard Dean like a distant radio. His attention was fixated on the skin crawling sensation of being touched, like the air itself was running its hands over him, _all_ over him, causing his flesh to prickle and the fine hairs of his arms to stand up. It was a violating feeling, vague and unsettling. A wave of déjà vu washed over him, bringing with it a sensation of oily tendrils ghosting over his skin.

“Sam,” Dean said, his voice deepening with concern. Sam’s eyes had gone glassy and distant, his head ducked down slightly as though avoiding something unpleasant. Dean’s first instinct was to reach out for his baby brother, grip his shoulder with one hand while pressing the other to his chest, pull Sam close so he could both reassure and assess him, find out what was wrong so he could fix it. But that might not be the best idea in their current setting, this shabby little diner packed with people, although more than half looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks and could give a shit less about what happened around them. Dean settled for stretching out a long, muscular leg under the table and sliding it up against the outside of Sam’s leg, just enough touch to comfort him, and he hoped to comfort Sam as well. He rocked his leg into Sam’s, nudging him.

“Sammy?”

Physical contact with Dean seemed to send the creeping invisible hands back to the shadows. Though the unsettling feeling lingered, the déjà vu faded away, leaving Sam a little creeped out but unsure why.

“Hm?” Sam responded, eyebrows raised, eyes on Dean. He rocked his leg back against his big brother’s, craving his warmth, the solid realness of his body, the safety of his proximity. They fell into a subconscious rhythm, their legs rocking back and forth together, slow and subtle, the effect of which was soothing to both men.

“Ed’s lucky bastard is a chick. Twenty-three, heart failure in her sleep, strange behavior in the last week or so, the works. I’m betting she was a hypnosis fan, too.”

Sam nodded. “So, what makes people act out and then drop dead? It sounds like a demon, but there aren’t any other signs of demonic activity here. Ghost possession?”

“Nah, it’s happening all over town, it’s not anchored to one person or one place. Not a ghost. Maybe a cross roads demon blew through here ten years ago, and contracts are up?” Dean offered with a shrug.

“Dean,” Sam said, his voice lowered, his brows furrowed. “You know damn well how hellhounds take people out. Demons deals don’t end with you passing away quietly in your sleep.”

Dean scowled, his head lowered. For a moment he couldn’t look Sam in the eye.

“Maybe this is something we haven’t seen before,” Sam offered, hating himself for having made that comment. “We should take a closer look at both bodies, and I’ll check the lore. Maybe you should call Bobby.”

Sam cleared his throat, eyeing Dean carefully. He realized Dean’s leg had stopped moving. Tentatively, Sam rocked his leg up against Dean’s, needing the contact, needing to feel his brother fall in sync with him again, needing that unspoken reassurance.

Dean fell back into the rhythm of their legs with ease. Sam continued talking over the facts about the case, his ideas, comparing it to other cases and lore he had learned. For the most part he was thinking out loud, gathering his thoughts, simply being the damn genius he was. Dean just watched him work, watched his mouth move, his October morning eyes sparkle.

_One day, Sammy,_ Dean thought to himself in the furthest corner of his mind, _I’m gonna bite your lip and never let go._

*

Sam stirred in his sleep. He was too warm and uncomfortable. He tried to roll over but Dean was too close, up against his back, breathing down the back of his neck. He loved Dean, craved him, but he was just too hot right now for Dean to be this close. He felt claustrophobic, on the verge of suffocation, Dean seemed to sense his discomfort and press closer. Sam tried to elbow him to roll over but found he was too sluggish to move. His blood felt thick, pulsing through his limbs in a desperate attempt to cool him down but trapped in a lethargic rhythm. The air he was breathing felt muggy, clinging to his lungs rather than swirling in and out of them.

_Dean, get off me,_ he meant to say but his words failed to form, left shapeless on his tongue.

Dean pressed closer still, rolling onto Sam just a little, just enough to push him into the hot, sticky mattress. He grabbed a handful of Sam’s sleep-mussed hair and forced his head down until his chin was to his chest. His breath was sweltering, coming in sharp snorts. His other hand, sweat-damp and hot, shoved its way up under Sam’s shirt, dragging across his skin so hard it hurt. One hand found his scars, fingering them lustfully, prodding at each one until finally settling on a long, ragged one that ran from mid-sternum to just below his left nipple, put there by some damn monster so long ago Sam couldn’t remember.

Sam’s torso involuntarily spasmed when Dean touched his scars. He wasn’t supposed to know about them, he shouldn’t be touching them. He dug his fingers into the scar and pain shot through Sam’s chest. Why was Dean hurting him like this? What had he done wrong? Was he angry about the scars?

Sam tried to cry out but only managed a weak, quivering sigh. Dean was so heavy he couldn’t move. He couldn’t escape. His brother had him pinned down to the bed, touching him in the worst way, rough and against his will, hurting him, scaring him, digging his fingers so deep into the scar they broke through the skin. Dean, his breath still coming in hot snorts against the back of Sam’s neck, pushed his fingers in, slipping them under Sam’s skin, working back and forth to separate skin from muscle, pushing and tearing until his whole hand was inside Sam.

Dean twisted his other hand tighter in Sam’s hair, deepening his forward flexion, and with his thumb began to scratch savagely at the back of Sam’s head, scraping through the skin until Sam felt the familiar warm spread of his own blood from the raw wound.

Sam fought back as hard as he could, attempting to scream in fear and agony as Dean dug into him, but managed nothing more than the pathetic twitch of a dying animal. Dean pushed him deeper into the bed, drowning him in the sheets, suffocating him into submission so he could dig through his skull and scratch at the wall with his hot, sticky fingers.

Dean’s eyes opened, his sleep disturbed by something shifting in the dark. He looked toward Sam; he was sound asleep… maybe. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Sam’s prone form. Something didn’t feel right. Sam was still, too still, on his side facing away, his body curled oddly like a slow motion cringe. A small violent spasm rocked his torso, and he began to sound like a man trying to breathe with his throat slit.

_Fuck,_ he thought, believing Sam was deep in a flashback to the Cage. Dean slipped quickly out of bed and went to his brother, grasping his shoulder to roll him back and shake him from his nightmare.

Dean’s touch, the real Dean, broke Sam free from whatever held him, and he shot up with a gasp. His body on red alert, flooded with adrenaline and blinded by terror, Sam caught a glimpse of Dean, the source of his pain, and when he came up he aimed for Dean’s face.

Dean saw the headbutt coming and had a split second to throw himself back. Sam still hit him, his forehead colliding with Dean’s lip, not as hard as it would have been if Dean hadn’t leaned back but still enough to bloody it. Dean instinctively put his hand to his lip. That boy had a hard head.

Sam sat on the edge of his bed, eyes wild, panting, a smear of his brother’s blood on his sweat-damp forehead, his body coming down from the fight or flight high as the details of his dream fading quickly back into the shadows it had come from, leaving him confused and shaken.

“Dean?” he gasped, the remains of fear and confusion playing across his face. He saw Dean’s bloody lip and knew he had done it, though he couldn’t remember doing it or why he had.

“Hey,” Dean said soothingly, pulling the bottom up his t-shirt up to wipe the blood from his mouth. “It’s ok, Sammy. I got you, you’re ok.”

He reached out to stroke Sam’s hair, and Sam did something he had never done before.

Sam shied away from Dean’s touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos are always welcome (they make my day!) and of course please comment, I always love to hear what you think of the story so far :)


	17. Chapter 17

Dean slowly withdrew his hand, brows furrowed, pushing aside his heartbreak to assess Sam, his brother his foremost concern. His shoulders raised, his body tense, taking quick, shallow breaths. His eyes cast down and wary. _Submissive_. Sam looked like a beaten dog waiting for his next beating.

Dean did not want to imagine what had done this to his brother, although he knew. It was something that had happened in the Cage. Sam was beginning to remember, some locked down soul memory was piercing the wall Death had built, and he was reliving some twisted shit Lucifer had done to him. Dean knew all about submission in Hell, about the unspeakable games demon torturers could play to make a man hate and fear his own brother, but he would never truly know what Sam had suffered in the Cage.

There was another explanation for Sam’s distrust of Dean’s touch, one he felt more than thought, one he tried to push away, to refuse to think about. Perhaps Sam had been reading his mind lately, picking up on the sloppy cues he was growing too desperate to lock down anymore. Dean tried to fantasize about Sam only when it wouldn’t show, like when Sam was in the shower, or they were apart for some reason, but sometimes he _stared_. The smoldering coals of his forbidden love flared on occasion when the light hit Sam’s eyes just right or he smiled a certain way. It was harder to subdue every day. Maybe Sam had caught on, and his evasion of Dean’s hand was more about disgust than fear. He had been covering himself up lately, sometimes even sleeping in his jeans and a long sleeved shirt. Dean’s heart sank, beat down by the part of himself that knew he wasn’t good enough for anything or anyone, the nagging voice that sounded like Dad’s, telling him he was worthless and undeserving of love, especially his brother’s. His hunter’s instincts argued though, telling him to stop feeling sorry for himself for a minute because there was something very wrong here. Sam was in grave danger from something more than Dean’s late-night incestuous masturbation fantasies.

Sam sat carefully. Rigid. He could barely breathe but he forced himself to. He didn’t understand what was happening to him. He had no solid thoughts in his head, just a jumble of feelings, and none of them were pleasant. It didn’t help that Dean was standing so fucking close. Sam could practically feel him breathing down the back of his neck and it made him claustrophobic. He desperately wanted to move away, but he remained still, paralyzed by his fear of Dean’s reaction, of Dean’s displeasure. He knew he had somehow split Dean’s lip, and in the dark dungeons of his brain that knowledge triggered a chain reaction which compelled him to wait for a punishment. Dean would punish him severely for his bloodied lip, then for the scars, and for running away.

Sam broke out in a cold sweat. The intensity of his feelings held him still. His brain struggled to make any kind of sense of it, to use its genius alchemy to transmute feelings into thoughts, then to analyze and decode those thoughts. His head began to throb, his mouth dry and sour. His heart raced, and he began to feel a phantom chill wrapping around his throat, ready to squeeze the moment he tried to move. He grew dizzy, and his gut rolled. Maybe if Dean just backed the fuck up a little he could think!

Dean knew blind fear when he saw it. Every instinct in his body told him to grab Sam, hold him close, whisper to him everything he needed to hear, to wait this out until Sam drifted back from whatever dark place he was in. But he knew deep in his hunter’s blood that you don’t touch a frightened animal. And that was exactly what Sam was in that moment. A wounded, frightened animal more than capable of badly injuring both Dean and himself. Any attempt to shake him out of this fugue state now would more than likely trigger another flashback, with possibly deadly consequences for them both.

Dean’s inner voice, the one that knew how smart he was, the one that more often than not sounded like Sam, told him to remove himself from Sam’s space, that his presence was keeping Sam locked in his own private hell, and only time and breathing room could ease him back.

He gritted his teeth. This went against everything he felt was right, but thinking had to overrule feeling. Dean held his hands up and stepped back, carefully gauging Sam’s reaction. He was gripping the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles were white. His eyes remained downcast, though he watched Dean’s feet as he continued to back away.

“Hey, Sammy, it’s ok,” Dean said soothingly, addressing the wounded animal that was his brother. “I don’t know where you are right now, but I need you to come back, ok?” He slipped his coat off the back of the chair nearest the door. He held up his keys although Sam would not look at him. “I’m just gonna go for a drive. You… you be here when I come back.”

Walking through that motel room door gutted him. Sam was all alone in a very dark place, but had to be handled carefully lest his wall come tumbling down, unleashing madness and death on a mind that had already suffered enough. No. It was better for Sam for Dean to step away. Let him get his bearings.

He breathed in the cool night air, slid into the driver’s seat of the Impala, warded off a tear with sound of her engine roaring to life.

Sam exhaled in time with the sound of the Impala pulling out of the parking lot. His head pounded harder, black flashes exploding behind his eyes. He wanted Dean. His stomach rolled. He needed Dean. He felt something in the back of his head, a vivid _crack_ , and with it he heard a forgotten voice echoing in the spaces behind his wall.

“Crack.”

Lucifer’s voice.

_Dean, please come back…_

The room melted into a pool of oily black and Sam began to scream.

Sam’s body collapsed onto the floor in a seizure.

*

Sam woke violently retching. He rolled himself over just in time to avoid choking on his vomit. Even after he was empty he continued to dry heave for several excruciating moments. Finally able to catch his breath, Sam sat up shakily. He was covered in sweat and vomit, his face sticky with snot and tears. He felt weak, but stable enough to stand. He was alone in the room. He vaguely remembered Dean had left for some reason. Probably for food or beer.

Sam’s head cleared and he realized what had happened. He had had a seizure, another one, more than likely because something had triggered a Cage flashback. Dean would make a huge deal about it, worried and pissed and fussing over him like had when they were little and Dean was the only mother he had to care for him when he was sick. He didn’t want Dean to worry or fuss, or listen to another goddamn lecture about how he was supposed to stay away from the wall, to be careful about triggers, that breaking the wall could kill him. He had no clue what had triggered him, and he had no memory of a flashback, just the evidence of the aftermath.

He wiped his sweaty hand down his sticky face. Gross. At least he hadn’t pissed himself. But he was in rough shape and the whole room smelled like a hot stable full of bad diner food. He quickly cleaned up after himself and took a shower, careful to bring fresh clothes into the bathroom with him so he could dress without Dean catching a look at him. The heat and steam felt so good, better than usual, and he thought he must have been dreaming of someplace cold.

*

Dean felt like he’d been circling the block forever. It was 2am already, he didn’t know when he’d started driving, but any time away from Sam’s side was too long. Sammy had to have snapped out of it by now, and if not, well, fuck everything, he was going to take care of his brother anyway, the only way he knew how.

“Saaam,” he called, looking around the room warily as he came through the door. “Sammy.”

“Hey.” Sam stepped out of the bathroom, barefoot in pajama pants and a long sleeved t-shirt. He reached up and ran his fingers through his damp hair, offering a flash of tan belly and hipbone. He smiled nervously.

Dean took his coat off, hung it back on the chair. “You, uh, feeling better?” He subconsciously touched his split lip.

Sam frowned. The seizure had knocked most the night out his memory, but he was pretty damn sure he had done that to Dean. “Uh, yeah,” he offered with a quick, self conscious grin. He cleared his throat. “How’s your lip?”

Dean waved him off. “I’ve had worse.” Curious as to what Sam remembered he quickly added with a joking smile, “You hit like a girl.”

Sam responded with half a smirk, trying to join in Dean’s joke but failing.

_You hit like Dad._

Sam winced, stung by the comment, and unsure if he had thought it or Dean had said it or if he had even heard it at all.

Dean watched carefully. Sam’s face went from an attempted smile to looking like he’d been slapped, his head cocking just slightly to hear something that wasn’t there. Dean chose to tread lightly. He sat in the chair and put his feet up on the table. “You should get some shut-eye.”

Sam ran his fingers through his hair again. Another flash of taut belly. “Um, I’m not really tired.”

Sam was anxious, restless. He was afraid of having another seizure, afraid Dean would find out about the one he’d had earlier. There was something else bothering him, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“You hungry?” Dean asked.

“Hmm?” Sam’s attention snapped back to Dean.

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly. He had been triaging Sam since he had returned to the room, and there was just something off about him.

“Are you hungry?” Dean repeated.

“Yes,” Sam said quietly, touching his throat absent mindedly, vaguely aware of a pressure there. He swallowed hard. He touched his throat again, felt nothing but his own skin. “Uh, yeah, I could eat.”

*

“Back for more, handsome?” Sleepy Girl asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean answered with a quick wink.

She smiled in return, still looking like she may drift off to sleep at any moment. “Well, good. I make the best coffee in town, all night, every night.”

Sam suddenly leaned across Dean. “Hey, uh, what’s your name?” he asked, somewhere between awkward and flirtatious. It had occurred to him that if the vics had either been not sleeping due to insomnia, or avoiding sleep like Ed the M.E., and if this pretty night owl was brewing up the best coffee in town, she might have been familiar with some of the vics as regular customers and therefore an asset to their investigation. Building a rapport now was in their best interests, and would allow for smoother questioning later. Laying on the charm almost never hindered their work.

Dean held his breath and tried to look anywhere but at Sam, whose face was inches from his own. Just the smell of Sam’s skin was enough to make him flush, and his palms broke out in a sweat with wanting to cup his face and kiss him.

“Missy,” the coffee girl called out over the sounds of brewers and steamers.

Sam turned slightly and realized just how close he was to Dean, and how natural that closeness felt. Dean’s face was turned toward the window, exposing the long, delicious line of his neck. The impulse to bury his face in that neck shot through Sam, to kiss and nibble along its length from his jaw to his collar bone.

Dean turned back from the window and found himself face to face with Sam. Their eyes locked. Sam’s mouth parted slightly. Their heartbeats fell in sync. The upholstery of the seat creaked softly as Dean leaned closer to Sam, drawn in by his eyes, his scent, his seductive proximity. Sam’s eyes fell from Dean’s only to fall to his lips, full and inviting, drawing closer.

“Two specials,” Missy said from the window with a drawn out yawn, too sleepy to notice or care about what was happening in the car.

Sam jumped so hard he almost hit his head on the roof. Dean just gaped sadly, another missed chance slipping through his fingers as Sam retreated back to his own seat.

Dean passed the coffees to Sam so he could pay. Sam noted again with a shy smile they were marked _handsome_ and _tall & handsome_. While Dean looked away to dig his wallet out of his back pocket Missy looked at Sam, offering a slow, deliberate wink. Sam winked back, his gut still fluttering from what had seemed a lot like a near miss with Dean.

They drove off in search of a bite to eat, a deafening silence between them. Sam took a sip of his coffee. Swallowing was uncomfortable. An unshakable sense of pressure had returned to his throat. Maybe he was just coming down with something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you reading! Comments are always welcome :)


	18. Chapter 18

After a long night of fruitless research and no sleep Sam felt like hell. Neither he nor Dean had slept well since rolling into town to investigate this case, or at least what looked a lot like a case, minus the violence, bloodshed, and monsters, but he felt worse for wear than Dean, his chest and throat tight, his hands shaky. He was no stranger to sleepless nights, neither of them were, the hunting lifestyle was not exactly conducive to the straight-eight ideal. Even when they weren’t on an active hunt there was always something to go bump in the night; the nightmares, the drinking, the occasional one-night stand, the fights. But this felt different, this fatigue. Sam’s throat tightened just thinking about it, a phantom grip, squeezing in a way that made his stomach roll and his heart pound. He had to be getting sick, incubating the flu or even food poisoning. A little sleep deprivation shouldn’t kick his ass like this. Maybe he was as goddamn fragile as Dean seemed to think he was. He could feel Dean’s eyes on him now like unwanted hands. He lifted his eyes from the laptop screen to meet Dean’s watchful gaze.

Dean was tired from their all-nighter, ready for a greasy diner breakfast and bad coffee. He was anxious to identify their monster, gank it, and get the hell out of this place. He was worried about Sam, who looked bad this morning, his face haggard and edgy, the soft valleys under his eyes beginning to darken, like he’d had some of the life sucked out of him in the last 24 hours. His reddened eyes suddenly met Dean’s over the laptop, a piercing glare so unlike him it felt like a punch to the chest.

Dean got up and went to the sink for a cup of water just to break the eye contact. He stared out the window at the pothole littered parking lot, his black car one of only a few in it. A groggy-looking woman in a rumpled yellow uniform was pushing a cleaning cart across the pavement to the first of the ground floor rooms. Dean quickly placed the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. The last thing they needed was some poor maid stumbling onto their research materials or portable arsenal. Or Dean’s porn.

Sam had spent the night digging through lore, searching for any legends of local hauntings or things that go bump in the night. He compared their notes on the vics to the M.O.’s of every monster they knew, cross-referenced Dad’s journal entries, then reread the case files. He sifted through the minutia of the vics’ social media pages, hacked email and cell phone records. He dug deeper into the Hypnosis Center, ran background searches on both the hypnotherapist and the psychologist that were treating many of the vics. He came up with nothing significant. This was either something they had never dealt with before, or he was overlooking something. There was a case here. There was a monster. He could feel it.

Irritated, Sam slammed the laptop closed and rubbed his tired eyes. His head was starting to pound and it was only 8 o’clock. Dean was staring again and that was really starting to rub him the wrong way.

“I got nothing, Dean” he finally signed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We have to be missing something. This has to be a variation on a theme, same monster, different trick. Or maybe it’s something we haven’t seen before. I don’t know.”

Dean sucked in his lower lip and nodded. Sam looked rough, a little broken down somehow, more than tired. There were so many things he wanted to say to his brother this morning, things he wanted to ask, but he settled for, “Get dressed, Sam. Let’s get some coffee and go look at a body.”

Sam nodded in silent agreement without looking at Dean. He rubbed his eyes again, burned out and irritated from staring at the computer screen all night, the pain pulsing behind them spreading throughout his skull like a creeping red shadow.

“Dude.”

Sam glanced up to see a small aspirin bottle flying toward him. He picked it out of the air effortlessly, opened it and took 4 of the chalky pills, washed them down with cold tap water from the worn old plastic cup Dean had just set in front of him. Dean squeezed his shoulder and Sam relaxed just a little, grateful for his touch.

*

“You know, with out of state plates I didn’t expect to see you boys more than once,” Missy said as she leaned out the window of the Korner Koffee drive-thru, looking as exhausted as ever. The glow of the morning sunlight on her face only deepened the shadows beneath her somber eyes. She looked tired down to her soul.

The boys were surprised to see her working so late in the morning since she had been there last night. Was Missy already on the strange road to becoming a victim of whatever was killing people?

“Well, we’re in town for a while,” Dean said with a small shrug. His bright green eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, ready to charm.

Sam readjusted himself in his seat to face the window and watch the interaction between Dean and Missy, stretching his long arm across the back of the seat, ducking his head down to see the barista.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” Dean continued, his natural charm conjuring up pleasant surprise and just a hint of concern. “You were here last night.”

“So were you,” she replied, stifling a yawn. “What’s your poison this morning?”

“Two regular coffees, please.”

“Make one extra strong,” Sam added, his shy smile and gentle charm taking the edge off his sleep-starved appearance.

“You got it.”

“When do you sleep?” Dean joked.

“I haven’t slept in years,” Missy answered from inside, already working on their order.

Dean looked back toward Sam and raised his eyebrows. _Interesting._

Sam returned the look. _Very_.

“Years?” Sam inquired when she returned with their order.

Missy shrugged. “I’m a small business owner. It’s a lot of work. I eat, sleep, breathe coffee shop. And I recently lost one of my baristas.”

Sam’s expression asked the question so he didn’t have to.

“She passed away,” Missy signed sadly. “It was unexpected and we’re all still reeling from it. I’ve been covering her shifts until I can hire someone else.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, Taylor was great,” she replied, her voice heavy with grief.

Sam tapped his index finger twice on the back of Dean’s shoulder. _You catch that?_

It was the name of their latest victim.

Dean cocked his head back subtly. _Yep._

“You visiting someone here in town?” Missy inquired as she handed over their coffees, sounding vaguely disinterested and possibly asking on customer service autopilot.

“Uh, actually,” Sam said as he flashed his badge, “We’re here on an investigation.”

Missy’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm. You’d think the government would pay for nicer accommodations than the Dream Catcher. But, then again, you’re not exactly driving a government issue car, are you? Investigating on your own dime?”

Dean smirked. “Cutbacks.”

“How did you know we’re staying at the Dream Catcher?” Sam asked, maintaining his casual charm, watching her reactions more closely now. She already suspected they were not what they claimed to be, but did she know what they actually were?

Missy shrugged and yawned. “You always pull in from the west. The Dream Catcher is the only motel that side of town. I’d think my tax dollars would pay for you to stay somewhere nicer downtown. And for a rental car.”

Sam discreetly tapped Dean’s shoulder again. “Would it be possible for us to come inside and ask you a few questions?” he asked quickly.

“That’s fine,” she answered, looking at the cars lining up behind the Impala, “but I’ll have to chat between customers. I’m running a business here.”

“I think she knows we’re not FBI,” Sam said when Dean parked across from the coffee shack.

“Yeah, I got that. What do you think she knows?”

Sam looked into his brother’s brilliant eyes, unable to answer, unable to really put his finger on it or explain how the strange feeling he’d had since coming into town intensified whenever they came here.

“Sam?”

“I… don’t know. I mean, if people aren’t sleeping, and they’re staying up all night, a lot of them are getting coffee and a lot of them are getting it here. It’s just a feeling, Dean. I think we should have a look.”

The inside of Korner Koffee was so small, the space uninviting, the air so warm and close, that Sam immediately stepped back, almost staggering, out the door. It had been like stepping into another realm. It had been like stepping into Hell. He shook it off quickly, but for the smallest of moments, just the space of a heartbeat, he had felt bare and helpless, _naked_.

Dean turned quickly and caught Sam’s arm as he seemed about to fall back through the door, his eyes rolled back, his skin pale. Sam recovered himself quickly but Dean kept a firm grip on his arm. Sam took a deep breath and nodded to Dean.

“Watch your head,” Missy said without looking up from the order she was working on.

“What?” both Sam and Dean said in unison.

“You’re very tall. You hit your head coming in.”

Sam touched his forehead curiously while Dean eyed the doorframe. Although neither man was sure what had just happened, both were sure Sam hadn’t hit his head.

Sam began to step inside, hesitated, chose to remain outside.

Dean cocked his head. _What?_

Sam motioned to his eyes with two fingers, then to the inside of the coffee shack. _Go look._

The space was tight, and although Missy maneuvered around Dean like he wasn’t there, he felt like he was in her way, unable to scoot aside without bumping into counters or shelves. He glanced across the top shelves, looking for anything out of place, any sign of hoodoo magic or demonic activity. He grimaced as the barista brushed past him with steaming cups.

“How many people do you usually have on per shift?” Sam asked from the doorway.

“One most of the time, two during our rush hours. Normally I’d have help right now.”

Dean sidestepped her again and snooped on another shelf, finding nothing of interest to their investigation.

After handing out her last order, Missy stepped outside with Sam.

“What can you tell me about Taylor?” Sam continued, drawing her attention as Dean began to look discreetly through cupboards and drawers. He listened to their conversation, admiring Sam’s way of putting people at ease and getting them to open up. Missy seemed comfortable enough talking to Sam, although Dean knew Sam was right, she did know they weren’t law enforcement but was willing enough to humor them. He wondered if she knew they were hunters, or even knew what hunters were. He doubted that this sweet, sleepy, petite barista knew anything about what was going on, but he trusted Sam’s gut like his own, so he continued poking around. He opened the fridge, looking through bottles of different milks.

Without warning the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stood up, followed by an intense sensation of being watched. He circled around slowly, seeing no one else in these close quarters despite feeling he was not alone. He slipped the EMF detector out of his pocket, switching off the volume and keeping an eye on the indicator. It ticked all the way up, pinned at the highest reading, as the sensation of being watched graduated into a strong feeling of being _touched._ Dean had encountered this phenomena since arriving in Astrid, but not yet this strong, this invasive. He got out of the small building as quickly as he could without looking spooked.

Missy was leaning back against the outside wall in a way that would have been rather seductive had she not looked like she was about to doze off any moment. Just looking at her made Sam realize just how tired he was. He finished his coffee and thanked her for her time, fighting off a yawn as Dean strode up to him.

“Here, let me top you off,” Missy offered, taking Sam’s cup.

Dean gave Sam a strong look that said _We need to leave._

“If you’re sticking around for a while, you’ll want one of these,” Missy said, her words lightly slurred by fatigue, handing Sam a fresh coffee and a punch card. “Buy ten get one free. And I offer a two for one special for law enforcement,” she added, giving Sam a lingering look before returning to the shack.

*

Dean didn’t get out of the car immediately after parking in front of Taylor’s house. He turned to Sam, who visibly tensed.

“Why didn’t you go inside back there?”

Sam shrugged. “It seemed a little crowded.”

“Did you feel something in there?”

“I don’t know what you—“

“Sam, I felt something in there, something bad. You practically fainted walking through the door—“

“I hit my head,” Sam snapped.

“You didn’t hit your goddamn head!” Dean snapped back. “What did you feel in there?”

Sam gritted his teeth and stared Dean down.

“Talk to me, Sam.”

The word _raped_ tried to force itself into Sam’s mouth but he choked it back. He got out of the car without saying a word and started up the steps to the front door of the house. He heard the driver’s door open and slam shut behind him. Dean appeared by his side just as he rang the doorbell. They straightened themselves up, dropping the brawling brothers act and adopting the investigating agents one in its place, tucking Sam and Dean away and becoming Agents Gallup and Smith before the door was answered.

Sam let Dean take point on this one, question the vic’s fiancé while he poked around, looking for the usual unusual, hoping to find a hex bag and the witch that planted it so they could gank the bitch and blow this town. Again, as was becoming the norm with this case, he found nothing, no physical evidence of any supernatural involvement.

_Fuck,_ he muttered to himself, moving back down the hall with long, graceful strides. Dean was just finishing up with Todd, Taylor’s fiancé, who was in tears but holding himself together as well as he could. Dean glanced up at Sam as he entered the room, his expression guarded but hopeful. Sam shook his head curtly. _Nothing._

*

“What do ya have for me, Ed?” Dean asked as the Winchesters strolled into the morgue. Sam’s jaw tightened as he glared at Ed, who was more fidgeting nervously around a corpse than conducting an autopsy. Sam’s presence made Ed more nervous and fidgety. Dean nudged Sam, motioned toward the table across the room where neatly arranged bins sat full of documents and the personal effects of every deceased currently in the morgue. Sam narrowed his eyes at Ed before stepping away to go through Taylor’s things.

“Agent Smith,” Ed said by way of greeting, his voice thin and wavering. He was beginning to sound intoxicated, and judging from the exaggerated dark bags under his red eyes and his erratic blinking Dean was fairly certain he had not slept a minute since they were last here. He noted the chaos of energy drink cans cluttering Ed’s desk and countertops, several having been knocked onto the floor and left. Their counterparts were coffee cups, both personal ceramic ones and paper to-go ones, most of which were stamped with the Korner Koffee logo.

“Jesus, Ed, maid’s week off?” Dean asked sarcastically, kicking a can out of his way as he approached the autopsy table. “And what the hell is that smell?” he added, slowly fanning the air in front of his face.

“It’s a dead body, they smell,” Ed offered with a weak shrug.

“It smells…,” Dean trailed off, trying to capture the odor lingering just below the surface. He’d been around enough bodies, he knew what death smelled like, what decomposition smelled like, but there was something else, an underlying pungency that was out of place here. “Like a slaughterhouse,” he finally decided.

Sam glanced up from the bin the he going through. _It smells like a slaughterhouse._ He’d had a similar thought while exploring Taylor’s house, encountering a vague animal odor in the bedroom, tangible as a ghost, haunting the air in places the sunshine cascading through the window couldn’t reach. Had he caught a smell of it at the coffee shack this morning? He thought back to the moment he had walked through the door. His throat suddenly seized, an invisible noose tightening mercilessly. Unable to breathe, he felt thin streams of blood begin to trickle down the skin of his neck and throat. His hands flew to his throat to fight off the attack, but there was nothing to fight, no invisible attacker strangling him, no blood. He gasped, able to breathe once more, his hands still at his throat, rubbing away the lingering phantom pain.

Dean looked up from the body on the table, his eyes flicking to Sam, his brow knitted in a deep scowl, to see Sam standing, grasping his throat, choking on thin air, his eyes staring somewhere far away. He snapped out of it before Dean could make a move toward him.

“Yeah, man, I get it,” Ed stammered, his attention drifting from Sam back to the open body in front of him. “I know. I mean…” His eyes fell closed for several seconds, his head slowly angling forward, and Dean realized he had just fallen asleep on his feet. Suddenly his head jerked and his eyes popped back open. He half chuckled, a strange sound, humorless and sad. “I swear to God, if that girl keeps crying I’m gonna blow my brains out.”

Sam’s expression darkened, he straightened up to his full height, his right hand moving back and under his jacket.

“Sam,” Dean warned.

Dean could see Sam’s jaw working from across the room, gritting his teeth. Dean stared him down until he took his hand off his gun.

“Ed,” Dean said with a slap on the shoulder that did not even pretend to be friendly, “Call if you see anything weird come through here. And get some sleep, man. Give the Redbull a rest.”

Dean put his hand on Sam’s back, ushering him out of the morgue.

Sam shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me, Dean,” he growled without a glance. Dean slowed to a stop behind his brother, watching him walk alone across the parking lot to the Impala, his body language a strange blend of aggressive and guarded. What the hell had gotten into him? Dean felt a burning rush throughout his body, a need to track down whatever thing was fucking people up in this town and take it down. Cut it, gut it, make it scream. Make it release its hold on Sam and everyone else it was destroying.

*

Sam hadn’t spoken to Dean in hours. He just reviewed their collective notes, dug deep into the web for any lore he may have overlooked. He paced the room like a restless panther, rubbing subconsciously at his throat. Dean’s attempts to talk to him were met with a dark glare. His face had grown a little more gaunt since this morning, the shadows under his eyes darker. Dean finally left him to his anxious pacing to get food. When he discovered the nearest cheap burger joint was in the same run down strip mall as the liquor store he considered it a sign from the universe that he should have a drink. Or four. So he purchased enough booze to numb himself for a week. Maybe Sam would have a drink with him.

Sam took more aspirin. It was barely keeping his headache at bay. Waves of nauseating pain just kept welling up and spreading across the underside of his skull like molten lava. He sat on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands. He was so tired his whole body ached. He had read and reread the same entries so many times they had stopped making sense. And Dean wasn’t helping, he was just sitting there, being beautiful and staring at Sam like he was a thing in a cage.

_In a cage._

_In The Cage._

Sam got up and resumed pacing.

“Chow time, Sammy,” Dean announced happily on his way through the door. He pretended that he didn’t see Sam flinch like a startled animal, and Sam pretended that Dean was not carrying too big of a liquor store bag.

“Sam, stop beating yourself up,” Dean said around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “You’re exhausted. You should see yourself. Sleep on it. We’ll figure it out.” He handed Sam, who was struggling to stay awake enough to eat, another beer. He opened himself another as well, but had already pulled his bottle of cheap whiskey out of the bag.

“Dean, it’s everywhere.”

Dean nodded, understanding Sam’s admission that whatever they were hunting was affecting him. Sam, distracted, nervous, stared at his beer and picked at his food. Dean, taking a chance that he could soothe rather than upset Sam right now, slid his leg under the rickety table, brushing it up against Sam’s. Sam, startled, began to pull away, but Dean met his eyes across the table, held his mosaic hazel gaze. Dean rocked his leg gently against Sam’s, softly, again and again, easing Sam into the familiar rhythm, until he relaxed into it, rocking his leg back against Dean. After a few moments he resumed eating.

“What did you find out from Missy?” Dean prompted.

“Not much that was useful. She moved here a few years ago, took over the coffee shop about a year later. When she noticed the demand increase a couple months ago she started staying open 24 hours. Some of the vics were regulars of hers, but she didn’t have any info we don’t already have. For someone so tired she is sharp, though. She knows we’re not FBI and she knows where we’re staying. I just don’t know if she knows why we’re actually here. I don’t think she’s a hunter, and she’s definitely not our monster. What did you get from Todd?”

Dean swallowed his mouthful of fries, took a large drink of his beer, and grinned. “Ok, get this. Taylor was hiding something big. Everyone loved her, she was just the sweetest little thing, a fine citizen since she moved here last year. Turns out back in her hometown she liked to party. She had a few too many at a friend’s bonfire party one night, decided to drive herself and a couple friends home, and crashed. She was the only survivor. She moved not too long after that, bounced around the state until she wound up here for a fresh start. Nobody knew, not even Todd, until the anniversary of the crash rolled around last month and she lost it. Todd said she started having nightmares, didn’t want to sleep anymore, couldn’t stop talking about that night. She started working double shifts, pounding coffee and energy drinks to stay up. She came completely unhinged in the space of about two weeks before her heart exploded. Ed cited all the caffeine as a contributing factor.”

“And nothing hinky in any of the vics’ homes? No hex bags, no cursed objects, no ghosts, no demons?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck,” Sam sighed, rubbing his temples.

Dean poured himself the first whiskey of the night and started going over the case files again while Sam reread Dad’s hunting journal. 

*

Too many beers and some whiskey later Dean became aware of how badly he needed to take a piss. Sam was sitting on his bed, long legs crossed, laptop glowing in front of him.

“You should give it a rest, Sammy,” Dean slurred on his way to the bathroom. On his way back he found Sam face down on his bed, arms around his pillow, laptop beside his feet. Dean approached carefully to check on him. He was sound asleep.

Dean closed the laptop, set it on the table with the books. He carefully removed Sam’s boots and socks so he could be comfortable and not get too hot. He also didn’t want him to get cold, but he was sprawled on top of the covers, so Dean pulled the blanket off his own bed to cover his brother. He knelt down beside him, quietly, unwilling to disturb his sleep but unable to walk away. Dean carefully brushed the hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear. He placed a slow, warm hand to Sam’s cheek and a whiskey-scented kiss to his forehead. Dean staggered back across the room to the table, kicked his own boots off and poured himself another drink. He slouched down in his chair, propped his feet up on the table, placed his pistol and EMF detector in his lap, and watched over Sam until he eventually dozed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments, I love hearing what you guys think! I will try to keep the updates coming sooner, I hate the long delays but life gets busy. And don't worry I won't leave you hanging with an unfinished story, it is complete just not fully written. Thank you so much for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

Dean woke with a start. He shifted in his chair, his back and shoulders stiff, his feet numb. Something popped when he stretched and he winced. He rubbed his sleep-crusted eyes, checked his watch. It was just after 3a.m. and he had hoped for a little more sleep, but a couple hours were better than nothing. Sam was finally getting some shut-eye, and that’s what mattered most. Dean raised his hand to scratch his head and caught a whiff of himself. The room had grown warm, a little stuffy, and he had sweat in his sleep. Whiskey sweats. Nothing made him feel like an alcoholic quite like waking up smelling like a bum.

He stood, his gun and EMF detector in one hand, and stretched again. The room tilted a little as he walked. He set his gun and detector on the nightstand by Sam’s bed when he checked on him. He was sleeping soundly, snoring softly, and his hair had fallen back across his face. Dean resisted the urge to touch him, to brush his unruly hair back again, and instead made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, undressed while it warmed up. He noticed the mirror. It was cracked, missing shards, just like nearly every mirror in every place they had stayed in since Sam’s soul had been restored. At some point they were going to have to talk about it instead of pretending it wasn’t happening.

Dean let the hot water pour over him, washing away the stickiness of sweat, the odor of liquor, the bleary haze of sleep. He soaped himself up, pushing away the lingering thought that he would never truly be clean again, that Hell had left him unclean in ways he could never recover from. He wondered if Sam ever felt that way, felt the stain of Hell, even if he had no memory of his time there. He wondered if that was why Sam kept smashing mirrors. He looked up into the stream of water and wondered if he would ever be clean enough for Sam.

From somewhere in the inky blue shadows of twilight sleep Sam had been aware of Dean tending to him. He wanted to open his eyes, to say thank you, to return Dean’s gentle touch, but he was adrift in the currents of sleep, unable to break the surface. He had felt Dean’s soft kiss, and replayed it in his mind, soothing himself as he sank deeper into slumber.

Just as he had been aware of Dean’s care earlier, Sam was aware of Dean when he returned to check on him, brushing the hair back from his face again, running his fingertips across his lips. Sam, still sleep muddled, was unsure if he should be aroused or irritated, though he felt both, a confused slurry of wanting Dean to touch him more and the claustrophobia of being touched so intimately. He tried to open his eyes, to say something, but found himself unable to.

Dean stroked Sam’s lips again, ran his fingers down his throat to his collar bone. Sam struggled to free himself from the sticky webbing of sleep, to reach out for Dean, to pull him closer. He wanted to open his mouth, invite a finger to suck and caress with his tongue. Dean’s touch changed somehow, his hands growing hot and sticky, and he started to push Sam over. Sam didn’t want to roll over but found himself helpless to stop Dean from pushing him onto his back, pulling his arms and legs apart until he was arranged spread-eagle on the bed. Sam tried to move his limbs but his body did not respond, it wasn’t listening, unable to hear his commands to move. The sensation vaguely reminded him of going under anesthesia and he began to panic. His heaving breaths were subdued with the presence of immense pressure on his chest, a painful force that took all his strength to resist.

“Wake up, Sammy,” Dean rasped, slapping Sam’s cheek lightly.

Sam’s eyes opened and he fought to focus. Dean was so close, perched on his chest like a ravenous vulture. Sam gasped painfully, Dean’s solid body crushing him.

Dean smiled down at Sam and blinked. His bright green eyes swirled over with black, polluted. Sam’s heart pounded erratically in his chest. He exhausted himself struggling yet remained still. Dean watched him with eyes like deep space after all the stars have gone out.

“It’s ok,” he cooed, stroking Sam’s hair. “I know you’re afraid.”

He touched Sam’s mouth again, brushing his fingertips back and forth across his lips, then returned to stroking his hair with both hands.

“You’re afraid I’m going to hurt you again, like I did down there. But don’t worry, Sammy, I’ll be gentle. So gentle you won’t even know you’re being hurt until it’s too late. Then you’ll take my hand and we’ll walk into Hell together and we’ll be home, Sammy. We’ll finally be home.”

Sam’s heart beat wildly in his chest. He sucked in air in short, labored gasps, unable to breathe under Dean’s weight, somehow still unable to move, unable to fight back, unable to stop Dean touching him however he wanted. Dean, or the thing that looked like Dean, slid a hot, damp hand down Sam’s shirt. He fingered the first scar he encountered. He leaned in close to Sam’s face.

“He knows,” he whispered. “He knows, and he’s so disappointed.” Black-eyed Dean turned his head, looking toward the nightstand, drawing Sam’s gaze with him. Sam saw Dean’s pistol, the barrel pointed at him. Dean kissed Sam’s lips. “Big brother’s gonna put a bullet in you, baby boy. You’re coming home.”

Sam tried to quell his panic. He fought harder to move, to breathe, to throw Dean off of him, but failed. His body felt disconnected, unresponsive, though every sensation was painfully magnified.

Dean ran his fingers over Sam’s lips again. “Do you ever still think about it? The blood? How it made you feel? How powerful it made you? I know you do…”

He moved suddenly from squatting on Sam’s chest to straddling it. Sam saw a metallic flash out of the corner of his eye, Dean brought a straight razor into view, waving it slowly in front of Sam’s eyes.

“Do you still dream about how I taste?”

Without breaking eye contact Dean opened his mouth slowly, wide, as if to lovingly accept a cock into it. Instead he slipped his razor in and drew it down the length of his tongue, moaning, opening a fault line of blood. He dropped to his elbows and caressed Sam’s hair as he forced his gushing tongue into his mouth. Sam choked on the river of blood, swallowing involuntarily, trying not to drown. Dean moaned, ecstatic, the same low, uninhibited sound he had made years ago when he had come in Sam’s mouth.

*

Dean glared at the skimpy towels the Dream Catcher offered. He had caught a glimpse of Sam in one of them, his exquisite ass barely covered by what amounted to a glorified rag. Dean frowned. He was thicker than Sam, stockier. He had stumbled in here without a change of clothes. _Fuck._ He wrapped the towel around the narrowest part of his waist. It was a tight stretch, the threadbare fabric clinging to his ass, outlining the contours of his cock, spread wide open at his hip. He wrapped a second towel around himself from the other side. He was sure Sam was still asleep and wouldn’t see him, but still, he felt like he was showing too much, calling too much attention to himself. Sam had been staying covered up lately like a damn nun, not even walking around the room barefoot, and Dean had a deep fear it was because of him. The thought was like a punch to the chest. Dean shook the water from his hair, ruffled it with his hands, and stepped quietly out of the bathroom. He took two steps into the main part of the room and froze, his breath catching in his throat.

Sam was up, standing by his bed, his knife in his hand. His body language was odd, trance-like, prepared for attack, his wide eyes looking at something other than the inside of the run down motel room. He was staring past Dean, watching something in the distance, something that wasn’t here. Dean slowly put his hands up and approached Sam one careful step at a time.

“Sam,” he called softly, his tone calm, attempting to minimize any threat Sam might be reading from him. “Sammy? What’s wrong?”

He stepped directly into Sam’s line of sight.

“Talk to me, Sam.”

Sam cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. He raised the knife at his side, pointed it at Dean.

“You’re not Dean,” he said, his voice a forced whisper, sounding as though all the air had been pushed out of him before trying to speak.

“It’s me,” Dean reassured, taking another step closer.

Sam tightened his grip on the knife. Dean could see his hand shaking.

“I… don’t… know,” Sam spat out, barely able to breathe, “What… the hell you are. But you… are _not_ Dean.”

Dean took another step toward Sam, who reacted by backing himself closer toward the corner of the room, his tremor more pronounced. His eyes rolled wildly and Dean couldn’t tell if he was looking at him or some hallucination.

“It’s me, Sam,” Dean said again, stepping closer. “It’s just me.”

Sam watched as Dean took another step, a lustful smile stretching from his red lips to his Hell-black eyes, blood still cascading from his twisted mouth. “It’s me, Sam,” he mocked, leering, stalking in closer.

“No,” Sam warned. Dean had crushed his chest so badly it was still difficult to breathe, to take in enough air to speak.

“I’m gonna gut you like a pig, Sammy,” Dean spat.

Sam gasped and grunted, his chest burning, his limbs shaking. He was on the verge of collapse, using the wall behind him to hold himself up. He was sweating, his eyes tearing up.

Dean stepped in close to Sam. He had to end this now before the wall broke open and he lost Sam forever.

“You’re not Dean,” Sam choked out in a sob, shaking his head weakly. He pointed the knife but didn’t attempt to thrust or slash. He was hesitating, that was good.

Dean grabbed his wrist with both hands, holding his hand and the knife in it steady. He took a deep breath and closed the distance between them.

“Cut me, Sam,” he said, his tone clear and even, calming himself even if he couldn’t calm Sam. “If I’m a monster the silver will burn me. You know that.”

Sam hesitated, wild eyed, frightened and confused. He trembled all over, his breathing labored.

Dean tightened his grip on Sam’s wrist. He pushed himself onto the knife, guiding the edge in and up, slicing through the flesh of his bare chest, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“Sam, I know you feel that. It’s real. I’m real,” he pleaded.

Sam shook his head again, his expression unchanged, still seeing something that wasn’t Dean tormenting him.

“Sam, please, see me,” Dean said.

Sam choked out another sob as Dean leaned in close, waving his razor in Sam’s face, the abyss of his eyes like twin black holes sucking in all light and hope. “I will cut you,” he hissed, “until there is nothing left to cut.”

Dean grew desperate. He dragged his fingers through the wound. The pain was sharp and raw. He gritted his teeth against it, a low hiss escaping as he tried not to cry out. His eyes watered but he never broke contact with Sam’s, wide, dilated, and frightened. He pushed his bloody fingers into Sam’s mouth, gripping his jaw with his thumb and palm.

“Taste it,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, coming in so close they were nearly mouth to mouth. “You know what demon blood tastes like. You know what _my_ blood tastes like. This is me, Sammy.”

Sam tasted blood in his mouth, blood that didn’t have the tangy sweet allure of demon blood, blood that tasted familiar, blood that brought back feeling and memory and longing. As the taste of it rolled over his tongue he flashed back to a night in the rain, when Dean had kissed him and their blood had mingled on their lips and tongues. He could not forget. He would never forget.

The illusion cleared, Dean came into focus, bleeding for him, tears welling in his green eyes. Sam pulled the knife away from Dean’s chest. He put his hand around Dean’s wrist, slid his fingers gently from his mouth, offering a small kiss to his fingertips, then to his palm. Dean watched his brother kiss his palm, their eyes locked, and his heart raced, falling into time with Sam’s.

Motion behind Dean caught Sam’s attention. Something was there, enormous and dark, pacing back and forth in the shadows. Sam dropped Dean’s hand, gripped his shoulder and shoved him back behind himself, raising his blade once more in defense. He could hear it, the sharp breaths, the heavy stomping. He caught its movement but only when not looking directly at it. It haunted the corners of his eyes.

Dean watched warily over Sam’s shoulder but saw nothing. He glanced to his side and saw the EMF detector on the nightstand. Still on silent mode, it was lit up red. He looked back to Sam, watched him tracking something, back and forth, following it with his eyes and blade. Dean suddenly caught the scent, that musky animal smell, and knew they were not alone in the room. Sam wasn’t hallucinating, he was fighting something unseen. Dean placed his hands on Sam’s hips and moved right up to his back. His gun was too far away, he would have to leave Sam to reach it, and he couldn’t see anything to shoot. Sam reached back and grabbed Dean’s waist with his free hand, pulling him in tight, protecting him.

Sam’s nose began to bleed and his vision darkened in spots but he refused to go down, to leave Dean undefended. He felt his legs buckling and fought hard against it. He saw the flash of a wild eye, then was plunged down hard into cold, black water, drowning violently as hands and other things wrapped themselves around his legs and torso, dragging him under, while others slithered up and down his body, slipping under his shirt and down his pants, touching him, stripping him, violating him.

Dean caught Sam as he collapsed in a violent seizure. The smell faded. The EMF detector darkened. Whatever had been there was gone, leaving Sam convulsing as the cracks in the wall widened. Dean was helpless to stop it.

*

When it was all over and done, Sam was left a defenseless, shivering heap in the floor. Dean was by his side, applying a cool cloth to his forehead, pushing his sweat matted hair back from his face, taking his pulse. Satisfied that Sam was out of the woods, at least for the moment, Dean scooped his unconscious brother up into his arms, a difficult task considering his height and build, but Dean didn’t care. He would gladly carry Sam to the ends of the Earth if need be.

Dean situated Sam in the middle of the bed and covered him. He stood close, watching. Sam continued to shiver. Dean sat on the bed, hesitated, reached for the edge of the blankets. He knew Sam was cold. He knew Sam needed him. He didn’t know if Sam would want him. He sighed. Sam needed his care, consequences be damned. Dean slipped under the blankets with Sam. He had traded his towels for a pair of sweatpants, but remained barefoot and shirtless after having cleaned and taped his wound, which was probably for the best if he was going to warm Sam. He brought himself right up against Sam, slid his arm behind Sam’s neck, drew him close so that his head rested on Dean’s chest. He wrapped his other arm around Sam, holding him, and softly kissed the top of his head.

“ I got you. You’re gonna be ok. I’ll never ever let anything happen to you. I love you. I’ll never go away. It’s ok, Sam. It’s ok,” Dean whispered, his lips brushing up against Sam’s hair. He repeated Sam’s lullaby until he drifted off himself. Sam had long since stopped shivering. For the first time since coming to this town, both men slept soundly, if only for a few hours.

*

Sam woke gently as the morning light crept through the curtains. He took a deep breath and with it came Dean’s essence. He was close. Sam could hear him breathing, slow and steady. He opened his eyes and saw his brother, by his side, jaw slack, eyes still closed. For once he looked peaceful. Sam watched him for a moment, then shifted gently to lay his head on Dean’s chest. He didn’t recall much from the night before, but he was in pain, waves of dull aches rolling over every inch of his body. He was afraid he had had another seizure, another crack in his wall. He didn’t know why Dean was in bed with him but he wanted this moment to last, this perfect calm, just a little longer. Dean’s arms flexed, tightening around him. His breathing pattern had changed, and Sam realized he had woken too. Dean was awake, holding Sam in his arms, taking in the quiet. Sam sighed and looked up into those beautiful green eyes. He wanted to kiss Dean so badly, slide on top of him, caress every part of him with his mouth, coax sounds of out him that he’d never made before.

Dean’s phone rang and they both jumped.

”Fuck,” Dean grumbled, reaching for his phone.

Sam slipped out of bed, grabbed his bag, and headed for the bathroom. He got in the shower before it was warm. He stroked himself off. It was fast and ugly, but he needed it, and he came with a stifled grunt. He showered, dressed, and found Dean sitting at the rickety table with coffee and donuts.

“That was Ed,” Dean announced, obviously unwilling to address what the phone call may have interrupted. “He says he’s got something down there we need to see.”

*

“A hoof print?” Sam asked, disbelieving, as they pulled in to the parking lot of the county medical examiner’s office. “On her heart.”

Dean shrugged, putting the Impala in park. “That’s what he said. ‘Distinct horseshoe pattern’,” he added, making air quotes.

Sam shook his head. Ed needed more sleep, less Redbull, and a serious ass kicking.

Dean noticed a commotion of police cars near the entrance as they walked up. They flashed their badges and entered the building, heading for the morgue. They had to show their badges again to get in. A handful of police were walking around Ed’s office, adjacent to the morgue itself. Dean nodded to Sam and the boys split up. Dean approached a detective who appeared to be running this circus, while Sam walked casually into the morgue.

Sam checked the tags for the name of their latest victim, a middle aged woman who had been brought in early this morning. When he found her he gloved up and took a look, glancing back up at the door to make sure he wasn’t about to be disturbed. It appeared Ed had not bothered finishing the autopsy before rolling the body back into refrigeration. Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell and looked at her heart. He had to turn his head, change the orientation of his viewing angle a few times, but suddenly he spotted it. There was a clear U-shaped mark on her heart and left lung.

Sam stared at the heart for a moment, mentally browsing his research, his brain repeatedly showing him an old painting he had come across. Finally a memory broke through on a wave of nausea. He head began to throb and his throat tightened. He wanted to flee the room but resisted. He fought back, dug for the memory, let it assault him. He had to know.

Dean thanked the detective for his time and cooperation. He turned and saw Sam rush from the autopsy room. Sam shot him an impatient look, _Let’s go_ , before walking out the door. Dean caught up to him in the parking lot.

“What did Ed say?” Sam asked, breathing hard, his hand on Dean’s arm.

“He didn’t say anything, Sam,” he answered slowly, his brow furrowing at Sam’s near frantic behavior. “He’s dead.”

“What?

“He blew his brains out in his office this morning.”

“Shit,” Sam spat, almost under his breath. He started pacing beside the car.

“Sam, what’s gotten into you?”

“I know what it is, Dean. I know what’s killing everybody.”

“Ok, Sherlock. So spill. What is it?”

Sam leaned on the roof of the Impala. “It’s a Nightmare.”

“Oh, I know it’s a nightmare, Sammy.”

“No, it’s a Nightmare.” Sam pounded his palms on the roof for emphasis. “A _Mara_. I saw it last night, in the room. Dean, it’s not going to stop killing until we kill it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting Sam remembers seeing is The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading. Comments and kudos are appreciated :)


	20. Chapter 20

“A horse?” Dean said skeptically, turning abruptly at the end of the room. “You’re telling me there was a horse in here last night?”

He continued his cranky pacing, his long, bow-legged stride only allowing for so many steps across the cramped, shabby room before he had to turn again. He wanted Sam to be wrong. He so deeply needed Sam to be wrong. How the hell was he supposed to kill a dream? He needed Sam to work harder and find him something he could shoot or stab or salt and burn. Although he somehow knew Sam was right, he was almost always right, and his gut grew cold and writhed at the thought. Dean wasn’t familiar with a Nightmare as a monster, but he knew his baby brother had a head full of literal nightmare fuel, and his mind was connecting the dots between Sam’s odd behavior, his bad dreams, and his flashback seizure. This thing, whatever it was, was hunting Sam in his dreams.

Sam sat at the rickety table and watched as Dean paced, his agitation evident. Sam glanced back down to the image on his laptop and the sensation of something tightening around his neck returned, a cold slithering, digging into his flesh. He rubbed at his neck, staring at the image, looking into the dead white eyes of the dark horse that seemed to stare back at him, its eyes rolling slowly from the sleeper to Sam. The Nightmare’s dead gaze was penetrating, holding Sam captive, unable to break away, and he felt the temperature around him drop as the world slipped away. He felt disconnected, drifting through cold water. He shivered uncontrollably. The dark horse cocked its head.

_There’s no dreaming in Hell, Sam,_ it whispered to him.

Sam choked in a desperate attempt to scream, the frail sound swallowed up by the ugly noise of Hell.

_Sam…_

Sam struggled to close his eyes, to keep the Nightmare out of his head, but it reached for him, into him, pushing past his eyes. It penetrated deep into him, violating him, dragging its grave-cold tongue along the jagged, cracked surface of his wall.

“Sam?”

Sam’s whole body jerked, his long limbs shooting out defensively, blindly swinging. He look around wildly, gasping for the air he had been denied. His gaze caught sight of the image on the laptop screen. He backhanded it off the table. Dean caught it just before it crashed to the floor. He looked up at Sam, eyes questioning, his brow furrowed with concern.

Sam grunted, cleared his throat. He was shaking, disoriented.

“Dude, you dozed off sitting there,” Dean said gently, placing the laptop back on the table.

Sam caught the image of the horse staring at him and spun the laptop around to face Dean. He cleared his throat. “Uh, so, this is our monster. The Mara, also known as a Nightmare. It’s a malevolent dream entity. It’s believed to be the cause of bad dreams and unexplained deaths that occur during sleep. Uh, if you die in your dreams you die in real life, right?” He cleared his throat again uncomfortably.

Dean watched him carefully. “Rumor has it,” he finally replied.

Sam opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself.

“What were you dreaming about?” Dean asked, his voice deep and dark.

Sam looked away and shrugged. He couldn’t remember, not clearly, but he felt a lingering terror, and a phantom sensation of strangulation.

“Was it the Cage?” Dean asked bluntly, slow blinking, the words harder to force out than he had anticipated.

“It wasn’t the Cage, Dean,” Sam growled, leveling a glare at his brother.

“You sure?” Dean hated this, he hated asking this question, he hated seeing the rage seething behind Sam’s eyes, but he had to be sure this fucking monster wasn’t scratching away at that wall. He would not lose Sam again.

“Of course. Only one of us is man enough to face Hell,” Sam replied, leaning closer to Dean, his voice still a growl. He stood and took over Dean’s job of pacing the room.

Dean let his expression betray nothing. He took his eyes off Sam and studied the image on the screen. “What the hell am I looking at?” he asked, hoping to calm Sam by getting him talking and thinking.

“It’s called ‘The Nightmare’ by Henry Fuseli. It’s thought to be a depiction of a Mara. You have the Sleeper, who is the victim, the Incubus perched on her, which represents the bad dream she is having, and then there’s the Mara itself.” Sam was unable to look directly at the image. He continued pacing.

“The horse?”

“Yes. That seems to be its preferred form.” Sam felt his heart start to pound and his throat tighten. He felt the horse’s gaze on him, its eyes following him as he walked.

Dean watched his brother pace and fidget. “Ok,” he said, his carefully measured voice concealing the tide of emotion rolling in his chest. “So how do we catch the son of a bitch and kill it?”

“I don’t know,” Sam growled. “There’s almost nothing in the lore about it. There are a few mentions of special prayers used to ward it off, but it varies by culture.” Sam ran his fingers roughly through his hair.

“I’ll make a few calls,” Dean offered, pulling out his phone. “See if anyone’s heard of this thing.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Sam said, his tone bitter. He snatched his jacket off the chair and strode toward the door.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean warned, moving himself between Sam and the door. “Where are you going?”

Sam stopped in his tracks, shoulders tight, jaw clenching furiously. “I’m going to the hypnosis center, to talk to Forest.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Who the hell is ‘Forest’?”

“The hypnotherapist. He was treating several of our vics. And he might know something about the Mara.” Sam’s lips tightened.

“Nope,” Dean said, shaking his head. “No way, Sam.”

Sam took a step closer to Dean and the door he was blocking, looking down into his brother’s eyes. “And why not?” he growled, his tone strained, as though his next words would come from his fist.

Dean stood his ground, preparing himself for whatever may happen. A cold fire flickered in Sam’s eyes, and Dean knew how dangerous he could be, but he was not about to let him go get his brains scrambled by some new age hippie witch doctor. Sam was bigger, and damn strong, but Dean had taken him down before, he would do it again if he had to.

“Sammy, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go have a heart to heart with someone who digs up people’s bad memories for a living.”

Sam suddenly reached out and grabbed Dean by the suit jacket he was still wearing, snatching him up and forward until he was on his toes. He sneered, a hellish look, then turned to the side, dragging Dean away from the door and releasing him with a shove. He exited the room, leaving the door swinging behind him. He adjusted his tie and threw his jacket back on as he walked down the street, all long lines and grace, his skin glowing in the sunshine even as a sticky darkness crept beneath it.

*

Dean found Sam exactly where he thought he would; leaning in the window of the coffee drive-thru, his feet planted wide apart, his ass slowly swaying back and forth, his long hair ruffled by a gentle breeze. He was smiling flirtatiously, his eyes downcast, and in that moment he seemed to be sunshine itself. Dean swallowed hard. In that single moment he saw a world without darkness.

Sam turned his head at the sound of the Impala pulling in and nodded once as greeting. Dean saw through the window that Missy was leaning down as well, flirtatious herself, offering Sam a surreptitious peek down her shirt and a smile that promised more than a peek. Dean felt himself grind his teeth and made a conscious effort to stop.

“Hey,” Sam said apologetically, holding out a fresh coffee as he approached Dean, who accepted it with a muttered thanks. They leaned against the Impala’s trunk, sipping their coffee in silence, warming in the sun.

Sam closed his eyes and turned his face up toward the sky, drinking in the warmth and fresh air as though he hadn’t seen the sun in centuries. It felt like powerful magic today. Dean cocked his head to the side and gazed at Sam. He belonged in the sun, eyes peacefully closed, head tipped back. He deserved so much better than the dark places they always seemed to find themselves. Dean smiled softly. Sam was leaning into him, his body a warm, solid presence at his side. Dean pressed back into his brother, took another sip of his coffee, and left it up to Sam to decide when it would be time to go.

*

Dean sniffed at his chamomile tea and recoiled, wrinkling his nose at it. He shook his head in mild disgust as Sam sipped his own tea. _Gross._ He listened to Sam’s conversation with Forest while he browsed the books in the therapist’s office, hoping Sam’s hunch would pay off and he would find something useful hidden among the stacks of new age crystal wielding quackery and hypno mumbo jumbo.

“How have you been sleeping, Agent Gallup?” Forest asked, pouring more tea.

Dean turned his head and watched the therapist with narrowed eyes. The guy was a creep.

“Uh, fine,” Sam stammered. “Good.”

“I heard one of my patients took his own life recently. I’m very saddened by the news. Is this why you and your partner are here? To ask me about him?”

Dean rolled his eyes and returned to his book browsing.

“Actually, I was curious if you know anything about Nightmares,” Sam replied, taking another sip of tea.

“Well, I am a hypnotherapist, I do specialize in sleep disorders. So, if you want to discuss bad dreams, you’ve come to the right man.”

“Really?” Dean sighed under his breath, looking back over. Forest was sitting just a little too close to Sam, leaning in just a little too close, staring just a little too hard. With two deliberate fingers he knocked a large book off the shelf. It hit the floor with a sharp thud. Forest and Sam both jumped. Dean’s poker face slipped momentarily and he leveled a dark look at Forest, who skittered back from Sam.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dean said, smiling inwardly to himself as he replaced the book. “I’m so clumsy sometimes.”

Sam cleared his throat, unlocking his phone and turning it quickly toward Forest. “Not bad dreams, per se, but are you familiar with something called a Mara?”

Forest studied the image on Sam’s phone. “Ah, ‘The Nightmare’,” he said, shaking his head. “Interesting, but mythological. The image of the dark horse at the foot of the bed is a common theme across many cultures, but it isn’t real. It’s just dream imagery, part of the collective unconscious. It’s an old superstition. Why, may I ask, would you be interested in it?”

“Just curious,” Sam said with an innocent smile, cocking his head and meeting Forest’s eyes.

“Is this part of your investigation, or is this… personal curiosity?” Forest replied, drawn in by Sam’s golden eyed allure.

“You mean off the record?”

“Please.”

“Off the record, then.”

Forest leaned in toward Sam once more, folding his hands together, lowering his voice. “This is an example of mass hysteria. Several of my clients have described this same image, the dark horse at the foot of the bed, watching them while they dream. Bad dreams, of course, nightmares or night terrors. Most said they felt they were paralyzed and smothered, or drowned. In each case they reported being terrorized by dreams about something long buried and forgotten. The mind will often _black out_ during a traumatic event as a way of protecting itself. The memory of the event, however, is still stored, deep in the psyche. Sometimes we experience a trigger event that brings those traumatic memories rushing to the surface and the mind isn’t prepared to deal with them, so it tries to dissociate itself from the memory any way it can. When this occurs, we see ourselves as victimized by the memory, which we re-experience as a nightmare, instead of accepting the reality of it. These night terrors can be incredibly vivid, replaying the tactile and sensory experiences of the original event. The dark horse it a common symbol of this victimization.”

“So, how would someone who is experiencing this type of night terror recover? Kill the horse, so to speak.”

“I would recommend a few sessions with a qualified therapist,” Forest said, edging the backs of his fingers up against the back of Sam’s hand as it rested on the table.

Dean shook his head as he skimmed through a book titled ‘Dream Entities.’ This guy was something else, and Dean guessed he probably had a sordid history of banging patients.

Sam withdrew his hand from the table.

“The horse itself is a folktale,” Forest continued with a shrug, pulling back from Sam. “Nothing more than human imagination trying to explain away the thoughts and feelings we don’t want to deal with. The same as any other thing that goes bump in the night.”

Dean snorted. He tucked ‘Dream Entities’ inside his jacket.

Forest watched warily as Dean approached them and thanked him for his time. There was something in the way he touched Sam’s arm to signal it was time to go, something deeper than a work relationship, something possessive. Sexually possessive. One look from Dean and he knew he had overstepped.

*

Sam was sick of drinking coffee, it made him piss too much and he was still struggling to stay awake. He read while pacing the room, fighting off the effects of sleep deprivation, forcing himself to focus on the book, half lulled by the soothing deep grumble of Dean’s voice as he spoke on the phone to his various contacts.

The book was less educational text, as Sam had been hoping for, and more a recipe book for homeopathic tea and new age crystal configurations to ward off dream entities and night terrors. Its short chapter on the Mara didn’t give him much more than he already knew, although it did state that the key to fighting a Nightmare was lucid dreaming.

_The Dreamer must first recognize he is in a dream, seeing past the horror of the dream imagery. He must then find the horse, the Nightmare itself. He must lucidly take control of his dream so that he may capture and break the horse. The Nightmare will often crush its victims as they lay in the throes of their dream. If the dreamer dies in his dream he will have died in life as well._

“Great,” Sam sighed, dragging his hand down his face, wiping the corners of his mouth. He closed the book and tossed it on the bed with a yawn.

“Anything?” Dean asked, stretched out on his own bed, notebook and phone by his side.

“Nothing useful.” Sam collapsed more than sat on the edge of his bed with an exhausted sigh. “This Nightmare is a killing machine, and I have no idea how to stop it.”

“We’ll figure it out, Sammy. Drink your coffee.” Dean swung his legs over the edge of his bed to sit facing his brother.

“I don’t want it. It’s not helping anyway. I feel like I haven’t slept in a month.”

Dean shrugged and grabbed his coffee cup off the bedside table, shook it enough to realize it was empty, set it back down. He grabbed Sam’s half full coffee with a triumphant smile. “This stuff is rocket fuel. How much caffeine does it take to power that kaiju body of yours?”

Sam tried to glare at his brother but returned his smile instead. Dean took a drink of Sam’s coffee and froze, his smile dropping, his eyes widening. He quickly went to the sink and spit.

“Sam, does your coffee always taste like that?”

“I told you it’s not great,” Sam yawned, fighting to keep his eyes open.

“We always order the same thing. This doesn’t taste anything like mine.” Dean took another drink, this time carefully swirling the coffee in his mouth, studying it. It was coffee, the same dark roast as Dean’s mingled with other notes. Bitter, floral notes. Dean spit again and rinsed his mouth with water from the tap. He looked to Sam, who was on his feet again. “Sam, there’s something wrong with your coffee.”

*

Missy opened the side door for her favorite law enforcement agents only to be greeted by the barrel of Dean’s pistol leveled at her face. She backed away as he pushed his way in, maintaining a steady, short distance between his weapon and her head. Sam stepped in behind Dean, a large, looming figure rising up over his shoulder.

“You’re closed,” Dean stated gruffly as Sam began rifling through cabinets and shelves, searching countertops and drawers.

Missy raised her hands slowly to switch off the “Open” sign, then closed the window and lowered the blinds. She was at Dean’s mercy but did not appear as intimidated as he would have expected.

“What the hell are you doing to Sam’s coffee, bitch?”

Missy glared but did not speak.

“What do you know about the Mara?” Sam asked over Dean’s shoulder.

Missy’s gaze snapped to Sam. She began to speak, or rather appeared to speak, her lips moving eloquently though utterly silent. Sam’s hands moved to his throat and he stumbled backward, panic in his eyes. Dean glanced back at Sam, then jammed the barrel into Missy’s chest.

“Enough,” he barked, shoving her back with the gun.

Sam recovered the moment she broke eye contact, returning her attention to Dean.

“It’s with you, isn’t it?” Sam asked, still rubbing at his throat.

Missy nodded.

“Why the fuck are you poisoning him?” Dean asked with another hard jab.

“I’m trying to save lives. Same as you, Dean.”

“How do you know my real name?” he growled.

“I see what it sees,” she responded softly. “I know a lot more than your name.”

Dean swallowed hard.

Sam held up a small, weathered, blue bottle he found in what could only be described as the junk drawer. He didn’t recognize the runic inscription on the bottle. “Is this what you gave me?”

Missy nodded again. “Yes,” she sighed. “You look like you’re still feeling it.”

Dean jabbed her again. “What the hell is it?”

“Something to help you sleep, and a little lure to call the Mara to you. I’ve been perfecting it over the years.”

Sam slipped the bottle into his pocket, asking, “What does it want?”

“It feeds on all the dark, scary, icky feelings we try to forget. That’s why it pins you down and digs around in your head and makes you remember things you don’t want to remember.”

“Why Sam?” Dean snarled.

“I told you, I’m saving lives, Dean. It has to feed. I can’t stop it. But I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve learned to spot who’s hiding some really fucked up shit. It can take ten people who cheated on their spouse or were molested as children, or I can give it one person who got drunk and killed someone, or raped someone and had their rich parents cover it up. And then you roll into town.” She switched her eyes to Sam. “You can’t hide the hell in your eyes, Sam. I saw it right away. It tasted both of you, and it really likes you. If it takes you, no one else in the town has to die and it will sleep for decades. I can’t stop it, but by sacrificing you I can save a lot of people from it.”

“How many people have you killed?” Dean asked, his voice dark and gruff. “How many have you given to the Mara?”

“Plenty,” she snapped back. “Now, ask me how many I’ve saved from it. Ask me how many slept safely last night while it was feeding on Sam.”

Sam stepped up to Dean’s back, placed his hand over Dean’s arm to lower it. “Where did it come from?”

Dean grudgingly lowered his gun, his anger soothed by Sam’s closeness, though he remained wary and ready to gank this bitch at the slightest provocation.

Missy leaned against the wall with a yawn. “When I was younger my older brother hurt me.”

Dean was already losing his patience with her.

“In a way a brother probably shouldn’t hurt his sister,” she added, her eyes narrowed.

Dean grimaced.

“No one wanted to listen, no one wanted to believe. I confronted him, and he laughed in my face. I was desperate and afraid, and I considered throwing myself off the bridge. Then a witch told me she could help me. She could make him feel his guilt until he died from it.”

“That was your answer, go find a witch?” Dean grumbled.

“No, she found me. But don’t they always?” she asked darkly.

Dean shrugged. He felt the rise and fall of Sam’s chest up against his back and he wondered how afraid Sam might be, this close to the Nightmare, or at least its lair, knowing he had been pumped full of bait.

“I agreed. She summoned the Mara. The nightmares drove my brother insane until he took his own life.”

“What was her price?” Sam asked.

“Only the child I was carrying.”

Dean made a loud sound of disgust. Witches were foul things. They gave him the heebie jeebies.

“So you gave the Nightmare your baby. Great. Why is it here?” Dean snapped.

Missy leveled a baleful glare at Dean. “You’d make a better hunter if you learned to listen. The baby was the price the witch required to summon the Mara. The Mara itself came with its own price. In exchange for justice it demanded an anchor. It will ride me for the rest of my life. And that’s complicated.”

“When you said you haven’t slept in years, how many years are you talking about?” Sam asked.

“Sixty? Eighty? I don’t really know anymore,” she said with a tired shrug.

“And the Mara is anchored to you?”

“Wherever I go it follows. When it has its fill it goes dormant, for weeks or even years. Then it gets back up and starts hunting again. I can’t outrun it and I can’t kill it.”

Suddenly Dean raised his gun again, the barrel level with her heart. “If I kill you, does it die?” he snarled.

Missy, looking too exhausted to continue breathing, lifted her t-shirt, exposing her tiny frame and small breasts. Her thin torso was littered with the telltale scarring of bullet holes and stab wounds. “You can try,” she said softly. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

Sam placed his hand on Dean’s arm again, forcing him to lower his gun. Sensing Dean’s tension he placed his other hand in the middle of his back, grounding him, reassuring him. He knew where the conversation was going.

“How do we kill it?” Sam asked, as though he hadn’t already figured out that answer. He moved his hand along the curve of Dean’s back, trying to calm him before he reacted.

Missy shrugged, readjusting her shirt. “I know some of them have been killed, but this one is tough. It can only be killed by the dreamer in the dream realm. That’s why it doesn’t let me sleep. I’m powerless.”

“Fine,” Dean growled. “How the fuck do I kill it in my sleep?”

“You don’t,” Sam replied gently, almost deflated. “It’s hunting me, so I have to be the one to kill it, right?”

Missy nodded sadly.

“How?”

“You have to catch it and ride it until dawn. But, you may have noticed, it paralyzes you. You can’t get up to catch it. All you can do is lay there and suffocate. I’m sorry.”

“Sam can get up,” Dean blurted, his face expressing both pride and derision. Of course his baby brother could do what she said couldn’t be done.

“What?” Missy asked flatly. She had been anchored to this entity for nearly a century, it was old and clever. It was a survivor. It paralyzed its victims mercilessly, and Missy as well when it suspected she might be interfering with its feeding needs.

“Yeah, last time it attacked. Sam was up walking around,” Dean trailed off, not wanting to go into the details.

Sam was still slowly caressing Dean’s back, reining him in.

Missy watched them for a moment. “How close were you before he got up?”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. He really wanted to shoot her now.

“Physically. How close were the two of you before he got up?”

“Excuse you,” Dean snapped, and felt Sam grip his shooting arm.

Missy rolled her eyes. “Jesus, I don’t care if you’re screwing. What I’m asking is did you touch him or speak to him while he was sleeping before he got up when the Mara was there?”

Dean shrugged defensively. “Yeah. Probably. I made sure he was still breathing. Why?”

“Because that contact may have pulled him into a lucid enough state to move. But it knows now, it won’t make the same mistake, it won’t come if you’re watching.”

“Screw that, I need it to come for me,” Dean said matter-of-factly.

“It doesn’t want you. It wants Sam and whatever is behind the wall in his head.”

Dean shook his head. “Just give me the damn lure. I got this.”

“No, Dean, I can do this,” Sam began.

“Shut up, Sam. I’m not letting that thing get anywhere near you again. Now give me the damn lure.”

Missy shook her head. “It won’t work, Dean. It wants Sam. I’ve only been slipping him the lure blend so he’ll sleep and the Mara can feed. Sam is the only one who can kill it. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll find another way, fuck you very much,” Dean growled. He shoved back against Sam. On their way out he yanked open the small fridge, grabbed a couple of energy drinks. “Stay with me,” he grunted, pushing the cans into Sam’s hand.

*

“Dean, I at least have to try,” Sam said, his tone harsh, his voice raised. He flung his arms out in frustration.

“No, you don’t,” Dean countered, raising his voice as well.

“But what if I can kill it?”

“And what if you can’t, huh? What if it kills you first?” Dean was now shouting, stepping into Sam’s space, but Sam held his ground.

“Then it gets fed and sleeps for the rest of century. And I still save everyone,” Sam growled down into Dean’s face.

“I’m not going to let you do this.”

“I’ve had enough of your coddling bullshit, Dean.” He gave Dean enough of a shove to move him out of his way so he could continue pacing. He was jittery from the energy drinks and incredibly pissed off. He knew what he had to do and was damned if he’d let Dean stop him.

“I will not watch you die again,” Dean said, his voice betraying the tears he held back. “There has to be another way.”

Sam gritted his teeth. The urge to grab Dean by his shirt and kiss him hard was burning through him, as was the urge to beat some sense into him. His heart was pounding, his blood was on fire, and Dean kept getting much too close to him. He paced furiously, his long hair sweat damp already.

“Dude, go get some Redbulls. I’m going to take shower, then we can research more, ok?” He looked at Dean, who appeared on the verge of a breakdown.

Dean nodded, unconvinced. He grabbed his jacket and keys and walked hesitantly to the door.

“Dean, I’m fine,” Sam reassured him.

Dean nodded again, left without a word.

Sam ran his fingers through his hair, grunting in frustration. He had to make Dean understand this was the way it had to be. Maybe the drive would cool him down, and they could talk without coming to blows. Sam stripped down to take a shower.

Dean started up the car and realized his wallet wasn’t in his pocket. _Shit._ He was distracted by Sam’s ridiculous need to sacrifice himself, and overwhelmed by deeper feelings that kept resurfacing no matter how deep he buried them. He turned off the car and went back into the room, muttering, “Forgot my damn wallet.”

Sam was down to just his boxers. He glanced over his shoulder at Dean, started to walk toward the bathroom.

Dean reached for his wallet on the table and glanced up at Sam, saw his bare back for the first time in weeks.

“Sam,” he gasped.

Sam froze in his tracks. He swallowed hard, tensed as Dean approached.

Dean reached out to Sam, placing his hand gently on his back, his fingers ghosting over a biography of scars.

“Oh, Sam,” he whispered. “What did you do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always, kudos and comments are welcome and appreciated, I love hearing what you think.


	21. Chapter 21

Sam stood very still, every muscle tensed, jaw clenched, his head slightly ducked in a tangle of fear and shame.

Unable to stop himself, set adrift on a sea of confusion and sadness, Dean traced the familiar patterns etched into Sam’s skin, a mosaic created by a lifetime of survival. “I know these scars,” he said softly, speaking more to himself than Sam. He touched a thin white line on his brother’s lower back. “This one took you away from me.” He reached up and placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder blade, traced his thumb over a jagged mess of a scar. His breath escaped him in a short, quiet exhale, almost a muffled laugh if it hadn’t sounded so damn sad. “I gave you this one. And Dad… he beat the hell out of me for it.”

Sam hung his head, lip trembling. That scar was a permanent reminder of just one of the countless times he had fucked up and Dean had paid the price. He felt so bare under Dean’s gaze, so wrong and disappointing. He wanted Dean to stop looking at him, to stop running his warm, rough fingers over his ugliness, although he was so desperate for Dean’s touch he could not make himself pull away. He closed his eyes.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You came back clean, like I did. These weren’t here a few weeks ago. What… what happened to you?” The scars were definitely real, but they shouldn’t exit. Dean moved in to examine the scarring more closely, his warm, steady breath whispering over Sam’s back, his other hand absent-mindedly moving to rest lightly on Sam’s hip.

Sam felt an electric surge in his chest. Dean’s breath on his skin, his hands on his back and hip, lighting fires deep within him that he may not be able to extinguish. He was beginning to tremble, weak under Dean’s touch. He was falling apart.

Every time Sam looked in a mirror all he saw was a man responsible for the deaths of nearly everyone he had ever loved, beginning with his mother. All he had ever wanted was to protect the ones he loved, though they all seemed to slip through his fingers. He saw in himself nothing but ugliness, a man who had taken countless lives, nearly destroyed the world, and cheated death so many times it was shameful. He saw a demon-blood drinking monster that polluted everything good he touched. He was a ruined freak of a man who, among his many sins, was in love with his own brother. Sam was so afraid that if he opened up, expressed how he truly felt, showered Dean with the torrent of love he kept bottled up he would lose him too. Dean would walk away from him and never turn back. It would likely be for the best. The thought made Sam’s heart ache and his stomach turn. Maybe Dad had been right after all. Maybe Dean should just put a bullet in him and be done with it.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, forcing back the tears beginning to burn in them. How could he even begin to explain what he had done? Dean would never understand. Even as he stood there, stroking the scar tissue with the gentlest touch, Sam knew he could never make it make sense to Dean, and that when he tried, Dean’s hands would slip away and be replaced by angry words.

*

His unbearable guilt had left Sam unable to accept the clean slate of resurrection, unable to live with the fresh, undamaged body reborn of forgiveness. He felt he should be forgiven nothing and needed to see the damage his body had suffered over the years as some kind of atonement for being a monster. Realizing the only angel to ever watch over him was Lucifer, he prayed instead to his brother’s angel, and begged him on his knees for his scars back. When Castiel refused he almost lost his mind.

“You fucking owe me,” he had screamed, his face a mess of tears and despair. “You brought me back and let me loose without a soul! Everything I did, that’s all on you! You owe me at least this,” he sobbed, putting his fist through another bathroom mirror.

Castiel narrowed his eyes, cocked his head curiously. He was sure he would never be able to adequately explain to Sam why he had resurrected him but left his soul behind in the cage, how the circumstances had been different when he and his full garrison had laid siege to Hell by Heaven’s command the day he had come for Dean’s soul, but it was only himself against Lucifer when he came for Sam’s, and that battle would have been over before it even began with a snap of Lucifer’s fingers. Nor would he ever be able to adequately explain his feelings for Sam, that he did genuinely care for him, much as he cared for Dean. He sensed that Sam, in his current emotionally charged state, would not believe him. He did not understand why Sam would ask, even beg, to be harmed so horrifically. Castiel did not want to cause Sam further damage, especially of this magnitude, and was quite sure Dean would agree that this was wrong. Sam did not need redemption, he had overpowered Lucifer to stop the Apocalypse and had saved the world. His many sins were forgiven.

“This is not necessary,” was all he said.

Sam stood to his full height and looked down at the stoic angel, violence flashing in his tear-ruined eyes.

Castiel sighed. “It will be tremendously painful.”

“Do it,” Sam growled, jaw quivering, nostrils flaring.

The angel reached his hand out, but Sam stopped him. “Not here,” he said quietly. Although Castiel had tapped Dean’s forehead when he first appeared, blessing him with deep, healing sleep, Sam was uncomfortable being so close to his brother. Sam snuck quietly past Dean and into the night, walked far out into the overgrown field behind the abandoned house they were squatting in.

Sam nodded to the angel.

Castiel hesitated, his fierce blue eyes fixed on Sam’s, and Sam knew in that moment that if angels could cry, Castiel would have. He reached up to Sam, touched two fingers to his forehead, and began to re-inflict every injury Sam had suffered in his 27 years. Sam cried out, his knees buckling in agony. He grasped Castiel’s wrist, holding his fingers steady to his forehead, maintaining their contact, even as bones broke and flesh tore, each wound appearing in rapid succession and healing just as quickly, every scar rewritten. Castiel did, however, omit any alterations made to Sam by Azazel’s blood as well as all the demon blood he had consumed during his addiction. He would not turn Sam back into a monster. Sam collapsed before the grizzly task was finished, pulling the angel to the ground with him, holding on with every bit of strength he had left as he screamed into the night.

When it was finally over Sam lay panting and in shock on the ground for hours until he began to recover from the trauma. Castiel remained by his side, watching him closely, sheltering him from the rain with an outstretched wing, hoping to someday understand the humans he tended to.

*

“I will fucking kill him,” Dean growled, only half aware of his grasp tightening on Sam’s hip, his other hand still tracing the scar.

“Don’t,” Sam choked out. “I asked for it. I made him do it.”

“But, Sam, why?” Dean was no longer able to hide the pain in his voice.

“Because… I am ruined and ugly and I deserve—”

“You are not ruined,” Dean said, choking back tears through gritted teeth. “And you’re not ugly, Sammy. You’re—” Dean was unable, and unwilling, to stop himself as the words came rushing out of him. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sam’s breath quickened as Dean’s words echoed in his head. Dean was still gripping his hip and stroking his shoulder. He was impossibly close, his warm breath washing over Sam’s back. It was too much. Sam was unable to hold himself together any longer. He turned rapidly on Dean, moving in close, too close, chest to chest, staring down into his brother’s wide green eyes. His jaw clenched and unclenched, the muscles rippling beneath his stubbled cheeks, his sunrise eyes full of a fire Dean had never witnessed.

Dean swallowed hard, every muscle tensed and ready for whatever may happen next. They had come close to blows lately, and Dean was ready to fight if he had to, though it was the last thing he wanted tonight.

Sam moved suddenly, too quickly for Dean to react, grabbing his face with both large, warm hands, and pressing his mouth down onto Dean’s. His grip was demanding, and Dean succumbed to his strangled desire, opening his mouth wide at the first touch of Sam’s tongue against his lips, and Sam moaned as Dean opened himself up to him. Sam drank him in, the forbidden yet familiar taste of his brother, moaning again as Dean eased his head back and gave Sam everything he asked for. Dean’s hands found Sam’s muscular hips and dug in, pulling him closer. Flush up against each other, Dean felt Sam’s growing arousal throbbing against his belly. He growled into Sam’s mouth, bit at his lips, teased the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Their hearts fell in sync, thundering with need.

Dean’s head was swimming in a smoldering sea of passion and lust. He wanted Sam, needed to taste every inch of his skin, to be deep inside him. His cock ached painfully against his jeans, begging for release, begging for Sam’s touch, his kiss, his embrace. In his aroused state Sam had broken a sweat, and the salty, musky scent drove Dean wild in a way he had never felt. He ran his hands up Sam’s sweat-damp back, his touch rough and covetous, and dragged nails down, marking his brother’s skin and causing him to hiss into their kiss at the first sting of pain. Dean scratched him again, long and deep, craving that pained, aroused hiss, preparing Sam for the greater, more exquisite pain to come.

A stray thought, unwelcome, drifted to the surface of Dean’s sex-muddled mind. _What if Sam runs again, after you hurt him like this?_

Sam felt something change in Dean, felt him slow and begin to slip away. _No_. Nothing would come between them this time. Sam would have his brother, in every way possible, allowing nothing to come between them. Once more he moved faster than Dean could react to, giving him no time to pull away, to stop what they had begun. He bent his knees, lowering himself just below Dean’s height, moved Dean’s arms up and around his neck, then firmly grabbed Dean’s thighs just below his ass. He lifted Dean swiftly, pulling his legs apart, smiling to himself as Dean instinctively wrapped his legs around his waist. Sam pitched forward, taking four long strides across the room until they met the wall, slamming Dean hard enough into it to knock a cheap, smoke stained painting off. Dean grunted, tightened his legs around Sam, bit and sucked on his lower lip. Sam rolled his hips against Dean, a slow, suggestive rhythm, the unyielding shapes of their cocks sliding against each other, a teasing friction. Sam kissed and bit his way across Dean’s well-defined jaw line, worked his way down his throat. Dean tilted his head, opening himself to Sam’s assault, the sweetness of his kisses and the sharp pain of his bites. He gasped and murmured Sam’s name, tangled his fingers in his hair, tightening and tugging.

Sam moved sideways, dragging Dean across the wall toward the shabby dresser. He swung his arm wildly, knocking a thick phone book and dusty lamp onto the floor with a glassy thud. He shoved Dean onto the dresser, freeing his hands to grab his t-shirt. Dean lifted his arms, breaking away just long enough for Sam to pull his shirt off of him. Sam looked into Dean’s eyes, waiting, giving him a chance to say he didn’t want this, but Dean grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him back in, meeting his mouth with a love-starved kiss. Sam’s hands quickly went down, unbuckling Dean’s belt, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, reaching into the open space to grasp Dean’s bare cock. Dean made a long, low sound, a deep purr, and bit Sam’s lower lip hard. Sam ran his thumb over the slit, sending powerful jolts throughout Dean’s body, igniting his nerve endings.

Dean put his hands on Sam’s chest and pushed him away. Sam stumbled back, startled. Dean jumped off the dresser, strode up to Sam, pushed him again, his expression dangerous, his eyes darkened with lust. Sam tried to catch his breath as Dean grabbed his shoulders, spun him round, shoved him face down onto the bed. Sam landed in an unceremonious sprawl. Dean was on top of him immediately, straddling his thighs, looking down at the red welts he had left in Sam’s flesh. He hooked his fingers into Sam’s boxers and yanked them down, baring Sam’s splendid ass. Dean bent down and bit into a cheek, tasting the flesh he had craved for a lifetime. He sucked and bit, working a large, purple mark. Satisfied with his work, he climbed off Sam and pulled his boxers all the way off. He stood at the foot of the bed, admiring Sam in his naked glory, mouth watering at the thought of tasting more of him, stroking his cock lightly as it stood thick and ready out of his open jeans.

Sam waited patiently, face down and fully nude, allowing his brother to look him over, decide his next move. He felt cold and fearful, unsure of Dean’s thoughts, longing for his touch, no matter how rough. The bite on his ass throbbed happily in the background, the scratches down his back stinging and warm. He fought the urge to pull himself up onto his knees, to offer himself to Dean. With every second that passed he feared Dean would walk away from him. He would do anything for Dean, perform any act, give him anything he asked for, just to have him and keep him. Finally, he felt Dean’s hot hand touch his upper back, palm flat. Dean gave him a little shove into the bed. _Stay_. Sam remained still.

Dean reached into his bag, feeling around between clothes and knives, until he caught a small bottle. He always kept a small stash of lube for those late nights when Sam was in the shower and he couldn’t stop thinking about him, naked and wet, surrounded by steam, maybe waiting for Dean to join him. He slipped the bottle in his pocket, kicked off his boots and socks, returned to the bed where Sam waited. He looked his brother over, really seeing him, and he truly was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Long, elegant lines and sculpted curves, his musculature casting deep shadows across his silky skin in the skewed light of the lamp on the floor. His scars were prominent, badges of bravery and self-sacrifice. He saw the body of a hero, _his_ hero, and he wanted nothing more than for their bodies to be as closely entwined as their souls. He saw the tension in Sam’s shoulders, the apprehension and anticipation. Sam was wanting but afraid. Dean was afraid, too.

A decision had to be made and there would be no turning back.

Dean watched Sam carefully, his tight shoulders, his clenched fists, his deliberate breaths. His jaw tightened. He wanted this so badly. He wanted Sam.

Sam began to shiver, sensing Dean’s hesitation, feeling the brush of his gaze over his bare body. Was he enough?

 _Please_ , Sam begged silently.

Sam’s heart quickened when he heard the rustle of jeans sliding down legs.

Dean took a deep breath and slid his jeans off. He felt a small weight as he stepped out of them. He reached down into the back pocket and pulled his phone out. For the first time in years he turned the damn thing off and tossed it away. He climbed onto the bed, crawled over Sam, gently lowered himself down just enough for skin to skin contact, his erect cock resting along the cleft of Sam’s ass.

Sam gasped softly. Dean was so warm, so close, nuzzling the back of his neck. He bit Sam’s ear, just enough to elicit that hiss he was growing so fond of. He continued his pattern of nuzzle, kiss, bite down the back of Sam’s neck and across his broad shoulders, easing Sam into his touch, introducing pleasure with pain, soothing and exciting him. He worked his way down until he came to the small of Sam’s back. He showered it with small kisses, bringing his hands down to grip the smooth round of Sam’s ass. He gripped hard, painfully, then released and kissed gently each side, nuzzling the cleft between kisses. He repeated his hard grip, smiling at Sam’s sharp hiss, bringing his thumbs in toward the cleft, slipping them in and opening him. This time instead of nuzzling or kissing, Dean licked a long, slow stoke. Sam shuddered, having never been touched like that, a deep, involuntary sound escaping his throat. Dean knew was on the right track and repeated the move, this time his tongue finding Sam’s warm, untouched hole and swirling circles around it before applying direct pressure, the tip just penetrating.

Sam began to writhe, arching his back, parting his legs farther for Dean, pressing himself onto his tongue. He gasped, overwhelmed with the new sensation and the knowledge that this was Dean touching him this way, making him feel like this. His head spun with want, with a burning need to have Dean inside him, and he grunted Dean’s name. Dean stopped tonguing him, slid out from between his legs.

“Dean?” Sam panted, his voice lost in passion.

Dean grabbed Sam firmly by the hips, flipped him over onto his back and straddled him, sitting upright, gazing down at his sex-flushed brother. He saw more scarring though he paid it no attention. He was fixated on the fire in Sam’s golden eyes. Sam brought his hands up to stroke Dean’s hips, waiting for his next move. Dean was so beautiful, looking down with his unbelievably green eyes, his skin already beginning to glisten. He opened his mouth to say something, and words failed him. Sam pushed himself to sitting, catching Dean in his lap, wrapping a large hand around the base of Dean’s skull.

“I love you, too,” Sam whispered against Dean’s lips before plunging into another deep kiss. He tasted himself on his brother’s tongue, adding fuel to the fires already raging within him. Dean sucked Sam’s tongue, rolling his own tongue around it, sliding his mouth back and forth along it in a way that made Sam dig his nails into his back. Dean eased them back onto the bed and began his journey down Sam’s front with the same nuzzle, kiss, bite technique that had proven so effective on Sam’s back. The pleasured sounds cascading out of Sam drove Dean further downward, nibbling at his collarbone and teasing his nipples along the way. Sam gripped the sheets in his fists, every muscle suddenly tensed, back arched as Dean ran his searing, wet tongue along the length of Sam’s cock, rolling around the head, before taking it into his mouth, his lips tightly embracing its girth, working up and down until he tasted the warm saltiness of precome.

Dean reigned himself back in, calming his frenzy, not ready for this to end yet. He pulled away from Sam and knelt on the floor beside the bed, grabbing Sam’s legs to turn him to the side and draw him forward so his feet were on the floor, his legs on either side of Dean. Sam trembled. He was so ready for Dean. He gasped softly when he felt Dean’s mouth on him again, licking and nibbling at his cock, teasing his balls, pressing insistently at his hole. An involuntary loud moan escaped him as Dean’s tongue was replaced by a slick finger, circling the rim, sliding inside and withdrawing, sliding in deeper, massaging his prostate before sliding out. Sam gasped Dean’s name, tugging at his short hair. Dean replied by plunging two fingers deep into Sam, mercilessly working them in and out, striking his prostate with each pass.

Sam was writhing, tearing at the sheets, pulling himself closer to Dean. “Dean… Dean, I’m ready,” he grunted out, although he wasn’t sure he was capable of making words anymore. Dean slid his fingers out of Sam. A moment later he had his hands on Sam’s hips, guiding him down off the bed. Sam breathed rapidly, caught between fear and lust. One of Dean’s hands came away from his hip, the other still gripping him, guiding him down. He felt pressure, something large and demanding lined up with his hole, pushing but not yet penetrating.

“Sam,” Dean said, breathless with anticipation and trepidation. “Sam, tell me no if you don’t want this.”

Sam gripped Dean’s shoulders hard. He took a deep breath, and pushed himself down, impaling himself on Dean’s cock, hissing at the sudden explosion of pleasure and pain. He worked his way down, inch by inch, not understanding how something so painful could feel so damn good. Dean was thick and long, filling him completely, stretching him, fitting perfectly within him as though he had been created for this. Once he was all the way down, Dean’s cock fully inside the hot embrace of his ass, Sam sat forward, opening his eyes, looking into Dean’s for a long moment.

“I want this, Dean,” he said, softly, steadily. “I want you.”

Dean kissed him hard in response and began thrusting in and out of him. Sam dragged his nails down Dean’s back, overcome by ecstasy, the pain long forgotten. When Dean wrapped his hand around Sam’s dripping cock and began stroking in time with his thrusts, Sam threw his head back, deep animal sounds escaping him wantonly. Dean watched his brother, the winces of pain, the gasps of blinding pleasure, with deep and profound adoration. Sam truly was the love of his life, his soulmate, his entire world, and to see him driven so beautifully toward orgasm at his hands was overwhelming. His golden eyes rolling, his teeth bared, his skin sweat slick and glistening, newly discovered sounds escaping him as he gave himself wholly over to his brother’s pleasure.

“Come for me, Sammy,” Dean grunted, barely able to speak.

Sam cried out, erupting in Dean’s hand. Dean slowed his thrusts, concentrating on stroking Sam through wave after wave of ecstasy, watching as he came harder than he had in his life, remembering their secret night in an abandoned cabin, their passionate kiss in the rain, all the times they had stood too close to each other or crawled into bed together for a special comfort each could only ever find in the other. In this moment they were one.

After Sam’s orgasm had run its course Dean pulled out of him. He wasn’t ready, not yet, not for this closeness to end, but he was concerned Sam might be hurt or had had enough. Sam, panting hard, kissed Dean again, long and deep. He knew Dean was waiting for him, and he didn’t want this to end, either. He wanted Dean inside him, so close, so perfectly together. He made his way back up on the bed, limbs shaking, head spinning. He offered himself on his hands and knees.

“Dean,” he called, his voice gruff.

“Sam, are you sure? I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Dean, please…”

Dean got up behind Sam, lining his thick, muscular body up behind him. He grabbed his cock, throbbing with need, the slit glistening with precome. He plunged back into Sam, so much deeper in this position, thrusting into him at a punishing pace, too far gone with lust for his brother to be gentle. Sam took every deep thrust and loved it, pushing back onto his brother, grunting and panting. He heard Dean’s breath rate suddenly pick up. He lowered himself down onto his elbows, offering Dean unguarded access, reaching back between his legs to stroke and squeeze Dean’s balls. Sam pushed Dean over the edge. He came hard, bucking his hips into his prone brother, shouting incoherently. Dean slowed, riding it out, digging his fingers into Sam’s hips. He finally came to a stop, his heart thundering in time with Sam’s, every muscle in his body quivering.

Dean collapsed onto Sam’s sweaty back, wrapping his arms weakly around his chest. Sam carefully lowered them down, stretched out on the bed, Dean sprawled, almost helpless, across his back.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered breathlessly, peppering his shoulder with small, sloppy kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! And for all your wonderful comments. Keep them coming :) We are just about to the end. I hope you've been enjoying the story so far!


	22. Chapter 22

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, nervous, fidgeting, so much on his mind, weighing on his shoulders. A smothering sense of shame leaned hard against him, shame at having made love to his own brother, at having broken just as he had in Hell, at having given in to his most secret, longest held desire. He also felt a soothing relief. No more hiding, no more denial, no more stifling his carnal urges. His love for Sam ran soul deep, fueled his every action, filled his every waking moment and dream, and now he had felt Sam return that love. He felt whole, finally, unbroken in Sam’s arms. But fear joined the party, dancing across Dean’s shoulders, teasing him that Sam might run like he had before, run far and never come home again.

There was also the very real threat of the Mara to consider. Invincible and hungering for Sam, it was out there somewhere, waiting for him to fall asleep so it could force its way into his dreams, tear down his wall and feast on his Hell, driving him mad and eventually killing him. And Sammy was fool enough to think he could take it on.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, shook his head slowly. There had to be a way to kill this thing on his terms.

Sam sat at the small, rickety table, barefoot in sweatpants and a V-neck, watching Dean over his laptop. The article displayed on the screen was entitled “Lucid Dreaming: The Art of Shaping Dreamscapes,” although he had told Dean he was researching ways to trap and kill mara and incubi on the earthly, waking plane. There was nothing in the lore, not even a vague mention, of anything like that, and Sam took it as evidence that the only way to fight a dream was on its own turf. He knew Dean’s presence was the key to drawing him into a lucid dream state, either a word or a touch while he was sleeping, and that would be his only chance at fighting, and killing, the Mara. But Dean was so goddamn stubborn, over protective, and desperate to sacrifice himself. He had to get Dean on-board with his plan.

Dean was scowling, lost in his thoughts. Sam approached him quietly, stirred him from his deliberations by stroking his short, sex-mussed hair.

Dean looked up, overcome by a storm of love and protectiveness at the sight of Sam, golden-eyed and tormented yet still smiling warmly down at his brother. Dean would kill anything and everything necessary to bring Sam peace. He reached out, his hands so used to patting Sam down, checking for injuries, as they had for his entire life, but now they stopped short, ghosting over him helplessly.

“You can touch me,” Sam said gently, catching one of Dean’s worried hands and pressing to his taut belly.

Dean rested his other hand on Sam’s hip. “Are you hurt?” he asked without making eye contact, his voice catching in his throat.

“I’m fine,” Sam reassured him, stroking his cheek as Dean leaned into his palm.

“Why… Why did you leave me?” Dean finally asked. He had given in to everything else he had held back for years, so why not this?

“I didn’t leave you, Dean.”

“You did. That night, we… And you just walked away, Sam. You left me.”

“Dean, I left _for_ you.” Sam turned Dean’s face upward, watched a single tear roll down his cheek. “I left Dad. I left hunting. I had to try to build a better life for us, Dean. I was coming back for you. I was always coming back for you.”

He stroked Dean’s hair again. It was such a simple gesture, so unfamiliar to Dean. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the warmth of Sam’s belly, lost for a moment in the soothing touch.

“Now, let’s figure out how this lucid dreaming thing works. I have a monster to kill.”

Dean stood, narrowed his eyes. “ _I_ have a monster to kill,” he growled. He turned and walked away with long, deliberate strides. He had begun to pace when his eyes caught the laptop screen. “Nice research, Sam,” he said darkly. “I thought you were looking for a way to trap this thing so I can kill it, not ways for you to go on a dream date with it.”

Fear always agitated Dean, made him harsh and cold. It made him more like Dad. He grabbed a beer out of the odd smelling little fridge, pounded it down while Sam struggled to explain.

“It’s hunting me, Dean. It wants me. And I’m the only one with a shot at killing it. Missy said—“

“Missy could be fucking lying,” Dean snapped back, slamming the empty bottle down.

“Why would she lie? She wants it stopped as much as we do.”

Sam’s lips tightened as Dean opened another beer. Christ, did he even taste it? Or was he that desperate to numb himself?

“Dammit, Sam, she’s feeding you to it! She dosed your coffee with a lure. She poisoned you. She wants it to kill you!”

Sam threw his arms out. “Dean, I know. And I understand where she’s coming from. She turned the Mara onto me, yes, but she saved other people from it.”

“Well, I’m going to save you,” Dean snarled, discarding his empty bottle. “I can’t lose you again.”

“Dean,” Sam sighed, frustrated and exhausted. He crossed the room toward his brother, took his face in his hands and looked into his incredibly green eyes. “It’s not about _you_ saving _me_. It’s about _us_ saving people. We’ll find a way.”

Dean’s lip trembled, anger and helplessness tangling in him. He pulled Sam close and kissed him, tenderly, as he had imagined doing so many times over the years, conveying every feeling he couldn’t put into words in a single kiss. He felt a soothing warmth wash over him as Sam returned his kiss, a calm only his brother’s touch could ever provide, a sense of safety and oneness as their heartbeats fell in sync.

Sam finally broke their kiss. He pressed his lips to Dean’s forehead. “I’m going to need Redbull, and lots of it.”

Dean closed his eyes and sighed, nodded his head. He would make the run, get Sam his energy drinks, and something else for himself. He had his own idea how to slay the Mara, and he knew Sam wouldn’t like it.

*

Day fell into night. On the far edge of Astrid a shape coalesced from the twilight and shadows of dusk, shaking its large head and snorting, the enormous dark horse taking on its corporeal shape as it crossed between realms, visible only out of the corner of certain eyes. The Mara trotted malevolently through the streets, the hollow clop of its hoofbeats echoing through dreams and twisting them, its inky black mane and tail floating around it as though it moved under water, its dead white eyes piercing the souls of restless dreamers. Malicious shapes rolled off of its shimmering body like wisps of smoke, unformed incubi escaping into the night to terrorize. The Nightmare had arrived at its hunting grounds.

*

Missy watched with tired eyes as the black Impala rolled into the small gravel lot. She went to the small side door and opened it, neither surprised nor impressed when she was greet by the barrel of Dean’s pistol.

“You’re gonna tell me how to kill this Nightmare thing, or we’re gonna work on how to kill you,” Dean growled, forcing his way inside, pushing the petite barista back at gun point.

“I’ve already told you,” she sighed. “The dreamer has to dream lucidly enough to catch the Mara and ride it until dawn. It will fight back. It will run between the realms, it will buck and kick. But if the dreamer can hang on it will run itself to death by sunrise. You said your brother was able to walk around while under its spell. If anyone has a chance, it’s him.”

Dean listened without lowering his weapon, scowling. “Yeah, well, I have a better plan. I’ll ride the damn thing.”

“It’s not interested in you. It wants Sam.”

Dean flicked the safety off. “You’re gonna make it want me instead.”

Missy arched an eyebrow.

“Give me the lure,” Dean snapped.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

Dean kept the gun aimed at Missy and began searching through the cabinets and drawers with his free hand. “Where is it?”

Missy shook her head, her loose bun shifting softly. “Ask your brother.”

Dean snapped his full attention back to her. “Excuse me?”

“The last time I saw it it was in his hand. He knows what he needs to do. Whether you like it or not.”

“Fuck,” Dean grunted under his breath. He re-holstered his pistol, grabbed a paper bag from under the counter, and raided the compact fridge for energy drinks. He’d be damned if he was going to let Sam do something as stupid as using himself for bait for a monster. They could stay up for days of they had to, whatever it took to find another way to kill the Nightmare.

“Dean, it’ll come for him when he’s alone. It will know if you’re watching.”

Dean glared back at her but said nothing.

*

The Nightmare halted mid-step, ghostly steam escaping its flaring nostrils. It raised its large, dark head and inhaled sharply, tasting the air, the inky tendrils of its wild mane swimming around it. Stomping its hoof impatiently it looked back over its broad shoulder, dead white eyes staring back into the night. The cold, damp stench of Hell flooded the Mara’s nostrils, bloody screams whispering in its ears. It reared up and spun round, breaking into gallop through town toward the Dreamcatcher Motel, watery tail streaming behind it.

*

When Dean came through the door Sam was already swaying on his feet.

“Sam!”

Sam looked up and blinked slowly. He struggled to maintain his balance, to see Dean as his vision dimmed. The sedative hit him hard, dragging him down into the Nightmare’s realm. He fought to focus on Dean. He hadn’t meant for him to see this.

“Sam, what did you do?” Dean’s chest was so tight it hurt to breathe.

Sam opened his hand and the tiny bottle fell to the floor. Although he knew Missy had only dosed him with a drop or two at a time he had downed the entire bottle, just to be sure. He staggered, a feeling of cold numbness flushing through him.

“No, no, no, _Sam_!” Dean ran to Sam as he collapsed. It was too late. He was too late. Sam was going away and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The panic on Dean’s face, the crack in his voice, broke Sam’s heart. He didn’t want to go but he had to. He reached out for Dean, his legs giving out, and Dean caught him, his embrace tight and strong. Sam weakly gripped Dean’s shirt with both of his numb hands.

“Dee,” Sam sighed heavily, a strained whisper. He tried to smile, to reassure his brother that it was ok, to give him hope although his eyelids had grown too heavy to open again. “Tell me a bedtime story, Dee,” he mumbled as he felt himself slip away.

“Sam! _Sam_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you're enjoying it so far. The end is in sight, and I'm updating as quickly as I can. Thank you for the kudos & comments, I love hearing what you think.


	23. Chapter 23

“Sam! _Sam_!”

Sam sank paralyzed through icy black water, slowly drowning as the overdose slithered through his veins, falling deeper and deeper away from the waking world.

“Don’t leave me, Sammy, please.”

Sam responded to Dean’s voice, a fractured echo floating down to him like swirling particles of light. The sound of his brother’s desperation stirred him.

“No, no, no. Don’t leave me again.”

Sam struggled to free himself from the lure’s sedative grip, swimming against the nightmare currents back toward the sound of Dean’s voice.

“ _Sammy!_ ”

Sam’s eyes fluttered open, trying to focus, fighting his way back from oblivion against the black tide. He gripped Dean’s shirt, grounding himself in reality, finding his brother through the darkness still oppressively clinging to him. Even before he was able to see he became aware of intense pain, spreading rapidly through his legs, a white hot burning unlike anything he had ever felt. He clung to Dean’s shirt with the waning strength he had in spite of a sharp resistance against his arm.

“Come back to me, Sam. That’s it, baby brother. Come back.”

Sam’s vision cleared. Dean came into focus, hovering over him.

“Whadya doin, Sammy?” Dean asked. “You know the rules. There’s no dreaming in Hell.”

“Wha…?” Sam choked out, in too much pain to even breathe.

Dean blinked, his eyes suddenly black as the oily guts of Hell itself. He smiled, winked, and brought the hammer down again.

Sam howled in agony.

*

Dean lowered Sam to the floor, cradling his head as it rolled lifelessly, his mouth slack and gaping. Sam trembled, his unconscious body in shock, poisoned and beginning to die.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, fighting the maelstrom of panic and anger that threatened to unhinge him. He forced himself to shut down emotionally, allowing the hunter in him to override the brother and lover. He pulled off his faded navy blue jacket, rolled it carefully and placed it under Sam’s head for support. He placed two fingers to the side of Sam’s neck, feeling his pulse weaken and slow.

“Fuck,” he growled again. There was no stopping Sam’s suicidal descent into the dreamscape, no stopping the Mara from coming for him, no stopping it from finally kicking down Death’s wall and harvesting the hellish memories trapped behind it.

Dean thought quickly, drawing on everything they had learned about this monster, concocting a plan on the fly. He knew he was the key to Sam being able to dream lucidly. A word or a touch from him while Sam was under the Mara’s thrall was all he needed to fight back. But the Mara would not approach Sam with Dean standing guard. It would shy away, leaving Sam to die untouched and for nothing.

Out of time and options Dean laid down beside his brother, on his side to face him, bringing himself as close as he could without quite touching him, not yet, no matter how desperately he wanted to shake him out of his stupor and kiss him until he finally understood he didn’t have to throw himself away like this. Dean closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, clearing his mind and relaxing his body. With measured, deliberate breaths he coaxed his body down into a meditative state, suppressing his nervous system, slowing his angry heart, lowering his body temperature. Fully alert he appeared to be just as unconscious as his drugged brother. This meditative state had fooled Sam once, and a wild Creeper, but would it fool the Mara, a creature forged of dreams itself? It had to be enough. It was all Dean had, and it was Sam’s only chance.

_Come on, bitch,_ he thought.

Dean waited for what felt like forever, not allowing himself the luxury of checking on Sam’s condition or moving once his shoulder and hip began to ache from lying on the floor. From his altered state he sensed the air temperature surrounding them creep upward, growing stagnant, suffocating. Then the musky scent hit him, darkly animal with notes of dusty tombs and hot slaughterhouses.

The Mara had arrived in all its fetid, hellish glory.

Sam flinched, his slow, shallow breathing growing labored, punctuated by sharp gasps.

Dean gritted his teeth and waited.

*

“You passed out on me, Sammy,” Dean chided, the black of his eyes so fathomless they did not reflect the light of the candles surrounding them. “And then you started dreaming. Naughty, naughty,” he teased, then swung the hammer again, this time shattering Sam’s left kneecap.

Sam sobbed until he choked. In unimaginable pain he fought back against the razor wire that bound him to the jagged, bloody alter. The thick collar around his neck reacted by constricting, strangling him, building so much pressure in his head he felt as though his eyes may explode, its nail-like spikes burrowing deeper into his flesh.

Dean leaned on Sam’s chest, gesticulating with the hammer as he spoke. “Do you remember where we left off? I am going to break every bone in your body, one at a time, just to hear you scream. You may have noticed already, but I started with your toes and I’m working my up until I finally bash your skull in. And then we’ll play another game,” he added with a sickeningly gleeful smile.

Sam turned away, unable to look into Dean’s polluted eyes any longer. He saw the hammer rise up in the corner of his eye. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for an impact that no one could have braced for, shrieking like an animal caught in a trap as Dean destroyed his right knee.

“Aw, come on, Sam,” Dean yelled disappointedly. “Grow a pair. We’re just getting started.”

Driven by agony Sam struggled blindly against the razor wire and collar that kept him helpless, cutting his flesh and strangling him. “Just kill me!” he managed to cry out.

“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, you deserve this. You know it and I know it.”

*

Sam convulsed stiffly at Dean’s side, his breathing more like choking now.

Dean moved slowly, stretching his fingers toward Sam’s cold, sweat drenched hand. He took Sam’s hand in his and squeezed.

“I got you,” he whispered, his lips all but brushing the curve of Sam’s ear. “You’re gonna be ok. I’m not going to leave you, ever. You’re gonna be ok. I love you. It’s ok.”

He squeezed Sam’s hand again, hoping it was enough, hoping he was enough to save his brother.

Shakily, weakly, Sam squeezed back.

*

Through the cold agony Sam felt something warm in his hand, something calloused and familiar. He drew in on himself, escaping the unrelenting pain of torture, and focused on exploring the object in his hand.

No, not just an object.

A hand.

_Dean’s_ hand.

Dean’s warm fingers stretched across the realms to caress Sam’s, to squeeze his hand, curling and entwining.

Sam narrowed his focus on Dean’s hand, slipping partially from his captivity, and squeezed Dean’s hand. Shaking uncontrollably from pain and weak as a starving child, he was unsure his attempt could even be felt. Dean responded with a double tap to the inside of Sam’s wrist with his index finger. _I got you._

Sam opened his eyes and looked closely at black-eyed Dean. The hand in his was Dean. The thing wielding the hammer was not.

“You’re not Dean,” he spat through gritted teeth.

The black eyed monster narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. The ocean of mutilated candles flared.

“Oh, no?”

Sam sneered, baring his teeth, raising his head against the vicious pull of the collar. “No, you’re not.”

He gripped the real Dean’s hand harder.

Half blinded by tears Sam spotted motion behind black-eyed Dean. Something dark and massive, shifting back and forth just out of sight. Sam blinked his tears away, trying to get a better look at the shadowy figure.

Dean jumped violently onto his chest, snatching up his full attention.

Sam growled, his entire body flexing, fighting against the tight, flesh-ripping wire. His bloody, muscular arms broke free, his hands immediately going to the collar, tearing it away from his neck, drawing the long spikes out with wet, puckery sounds.

Dean, crouched menacingly on his chest, hissed at him like a rabid animal.

Sam grabbed Dean by the throat, yanking him close.

“You’re not Dean,” he spat again, throwing the apparition to the ground. It vanished like smoke.

The shadowy creature snorted angrily, stomping its hooves as it moved closer to Sam. The horse’s shape became clear, like a ship passing out of a dense fog, its dead white eyes staring wildly, nostrils flaring.

Sam struggled to sit up, tearing away the bloodied razor wire that still trapped the rest of his body against the altar he might very well die on soon.

The glimmering horse reared up, thrusting its hooves furiously. It came down hard, one massive hoof slamming down on Sam’s chest, trampling him. It reared up again as he gasped for air, came down with rib-crushing force.

*

Sam sat up.

Dean knelt in front on him, hands on his brother’s shoulders, his relief quickly turning to horror as he realized Sam was still dreaming.

Sam stared through Dean, looking not at him but at something in his dream. He smirked, a defiant half smile spreading across his lips, a spiteful triumph. Blood spilled out of his mouth as his lips parted, reddening his smile.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean gasped, trying to manage Sam’s bleeding.

Sam’s eyes rolled up. He thrashed violently, more blood flowing from his mouth. Dean carefully laid him down, rolling him on his side to keep him from aspirating and drowning in his own blood as the seizure had its way with him. Sam grew still. Too still. Dean checked his pulse and found it raging erratically in Sam’s neck.

Sam got to his feet as quickly as he’d sat up, still dreaming, still bleeding, staggering on his unsteady legs, his expression determined, enraged.

Dean held his arms out toward Sam as he began to stalk unsteadily around the room, steering him clear of furniture and the front door. Sam’s neck and arms appeared to be bleeding as well as his mouth. Invisible impacts shook his body, knocking him backward. Dean watched helplessly as Sam’s sleepwalk battle for his life continued deep into the night.

*

Sam threw a powerful punch at the Nightmare’s leg, knocking it off his chest. He took in a sharp, burning gasp of air. Sam took control of his dream, peeling the razor wire away, ignoring the permeating pain of his imagined injuries. He rose from the altar on unbroken legs, his fully nude body glistening with sweat and blood, lips peeled back and teeth bared, ready to ride the Mara back into whatever stinking corner of Hell it had crawled out of.

Sam easily dodged the thrashing hooves as the Mara reared up again, shrieking at him in rage at having taken over control of his own dream. He threw another solid punch, this time striking the enormous creature’s chest. It came back down hard, hooves striking the altar, shrieking again in pain and anger. Sam snatched at the shadowy darkness of its billowing mane, wrapping his hand in the swirling tendrils, gripping tight as he swung himself up onto the Mara’s dark, silky back. He dug his knees in, tangled his free hand in the mane as well. The Nightmare bucked wildly, refusing its rider, kicking over hundreds of the flickering candles surrounding the altar. Sam clung to the Mara’s back for his life and the lives of countless others.

The Mara broke into a furious gallop, racing across the landscape of Sam’s worst nightmares, its hellish sights set firmly on the wall at the end of this road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment, I love to hear what you think of the story. xoxo


	24. Chapter 24

Enveloped in cold darkness they rode. Sam could not see anything, but he could hear an oily slithering around them that turned his guts to ice water. An undulating musculature, as cold as the deep sea and greasy slick, groped at his bare skin, tasting him, suckling at him. He held on, digging his knees harder into the Mara’s flesh, focusing his mind to push away this manifestation of a deep fear he did not consciously remember. He rode on, determined to conquer the monster, to save the people of Astrid, and, if possible, save himself from the descent into madness he could already feel tugging at him as the Nightmare raced ever closer to the wall.

Sam heard the echoes of whispers, a nightmare loop of things he wished he could unhear, or unsay. Every hateful, brutal thing Dean had ever said to him, and every hateful, brutal thing he had said in return. He heard the disgusted words of angels and the silken lies of demons. He heard his father telling him to never come back. He heard himself, his own voice and words, betray his brother, his soul mate, again and again and again. The echoes snatched at his thoughts, tore at them with greedy, mutilating hands, ripping and raping and butchering them until all that remained were the ruined thoughts he held deep inside of his unworthiness, his status as unclean, broken, ugly, and fit only for the bleakness of Hell.

His grip on the horse loosened as the rolling thunder of broken thoughts reminded him he was worthy of nothing. The Mara reared up violently, throwing Sam off its back. He hit the barren ground hard, his skin stinging from the cold icy impact. The Mara spun on him, its dead white eyes blazing, its deep black mane a watery halo shifting furiously around its head. It let out a hellish shriek and flung its foreleg, the sharp hoof cracking Sam in the mouth with the wet snap of splitting flesh and fracturing bone.

*

Sam collapsed to his knees, eyes distant, blood cascading from his slack mouth. Dean dropped down in front of him, wrapping his large, rough hands around Sam’s neck, cupping his jaw, no longer bothering to fight the tide of blood that seemed be coming from everywhere and nowhere, Sam’s body purging its own lifeforce along with febrile sweat and herbal poison.

“Sam,” Dean said, his voice a soft rasp. “You come back to me. You come back or I swear to God I’ll come find you.”

For a blurry moment he craved the solid coolness of his gun in his hand, the gently caress of the barrel against his sweat damp temple, the explosive sound of the end. He would not live without his brother. He would rather die. Tonight they might both die and the world could hunt its own fucking monsters.

*

Sam fought back weakly as the horse kicked and stomped him, its bloodcurdling shrieks blistering his ears and cleaving his skull. He struggled to regain control of the dream, to overcome the cocoon of terror and pain the Nightmare spun him so tightly in.

Sam screamed without words, a primal sound of rage. The Mara reared up, in motion to trample Sam, though instead it staggered backward, unbalanced. Sam screamed again, deeper this time, more powerful, realizing his strength. Sam rose to his feet, the power of his glare and voice forcing the enraged, sweat slick animal back against its will. He reached his arm out, curled his hand, and manifested his gun, a silver witch-killing bullet suspended in the chamber, a slaughter of potential energy waiting to be fired.

The Mara’s nostrils flared violently.

Sam squeezed the trigger.

The Mara’s head snapped back, its inky mane thrashing as the bullet punched through its skull, gouging a hole between its eyes.

Sam watched with heavy breath as the massive horse swayed, its hide rippling as the shock wave rolled through its body. Its head leveled back down, and when the storm of its mane settled, the Mara’s dead white eyes were staring deep into Sam.

_Even now this feeds me. Pleasures me. You cannot stop this. I will consume you._

Sam let the gun fall from his hand, never watching to see if it hit the ground or vanished like smoke, his eyes trained on the Nightmare. He snatched at the mane, once more using it for leverage as he vaulted onto the horse’s back.

“Not tonight, you bitch,” he snarled, kicking the Mara’s slick flanks.

They rode hard, both Sam and the Mara glistening with sweat. Sam pushed hard with his mind, willing himself to overcome his fears, silencing the voices of his past, drowning them out with the thunderous sound of hooves and the labored breathing of the exhausted horse. A white foam was building across the Mara’s body, ripe with the stench of horse sweat and the peculiar musk of death the Mara carried.

Sam, too, was exhausted, his thighs trembling, every muscle in his body crying out for mercy. He caught his mind trying to drift, the accumulated effects of sleep deprivation and an eternity of riding taking its toll. He thought he heard the Devil’s voice whisper the word _crack_ , and he shook himself again as the temperature began to drop all around him. A feeling of hunger gripped him, the frailty and tremor of starvation, and his mouth grew dry, his tongue swollen with thirst. The Devil whispered under his skin of the unrelenting suffering in Hell.

The wall was in sight. What Sam had imagined as a sturdy edifice of impenetrable brick was instead a weather-worn structure of cinderblocks, marred by erosion and cracks, vandalized by the Mara’s earlier visits and even Sam’s own foolish prodding. Sam’s blood ran cold in his veins at the sight. This wall would not withstand an attack by the Nightmare.

*

Sam fell forward onto Dean and began to seize violently, his eyes rolled back, his sweaty skin still dripping blood and blossoming with dark bruises. Dean held him tight, sobbing in a way he had never allowed himself before, even the day he and Dad had driven away, leaving Sam behind. Sam’s body convulsed and struggled for breath. He was dying. Dean could feel him slipping away and just held on tighter.

*

The Morning Star stood, tall and nude, his six enormous, golden wings unfurled, each rippling softly to the tune of its own celestial song. His crystal blue eyes glittered in the darkness, the warmth of his being reaching out through the vast cold of Hell to Sam. He leaned majestically against the wall, his form a sculptured work of art, a testament to the beauty and glory of Heaven. He opened his arms, wide and inviting, welcoming Sam back home to his rightful place at the archangel’s feet. The seduction of Lucifer at full power, enthralling, undeniable. Sam was mesmerized, his senses dulling, as the Nightmare beneath him charged onward, bringing him ever closer to the sweet release of Lucifer’s embrace.

Sam, near broken with weariness, longed for the archangel’s touch, for the warmth and solace it promised, to quench his thirst and sate his hunger, to soothe his pain and heal his wounds.

It was another touch that drew Sam from his dangerous reverie. A phantom touch from a realm away, of desperate hands stroking his hair, the brush of grieving lips against his ear, the strong beating of a heart pressed near his own. The soul entwined so intimately with his own pulled him back from the ledge.

Sam closed his eyes, extended his arm with palm raised, and _pushed_ , pushed with every bit of strength he had, the same strength he had harnessed to steal his body back from Lucifer long enough to throw himself, along with Michael and Lucifer, into the Cage. The distance between the Nightmare and the wall grew, the gray, barren landscape stretching. The faster the horse galloped the further it was from the wall. Sam tightened his grip on the Mara’s mane, dug his knees in harder, kicked its flanks, and pushed. The Mara, driven by fury and insatiable hunger, ran harder. The creature frothed at the mouth, its body foaming, its breaths heavy and ragged as its lungs burned out. The wall drifted further away until it was all but lost on the horizon.

The Mara collapsed into a heaving mess of sweating, stinking horseflesh. Sam jumped off to avoid being crushed, keeping his grip tight on its mane, unwilling to release the monster. Spasms rocked the Mara’s form, its thick tongue protruding from its foaming mouth. Its white eyes, already dead, rolled, the lids sliding limply to partially close. A final snort escaped its flared nostrils. The watery mane and tail drifted lifelessly to the ground, landing in unceremonious, stringy tendrils around the ruined body of the Nightmare. It no longer breathed.

Sam untangled his hand from the lifeless mane and walked away. He walked away from the dead Mara, his nightmares, his damaged wall, and his sense of worthlessness. He still felt Dean’s warmth nearby, and knew he was worth something to him. He was worth everything.

*

Sam gasped for air, choking on his own blood. Dean quickly spun him over, one arm around his chest, the other hand pounding his back to help him cough. Sam spewed blood onto the floor and Dean’s leg, coughing violently. Clinging to Dean’s arm he leaned hard into him, craving his brother’s strong embrace.

“I got you, Sam. I got you, you’re ok,” Dean kept repeating, though Sam could barely hear the words over the sound of his coughing, but he heard Dean’s voice and it was enough to ground him, to ease him back into the waking world. He opened his eyes and saw the light of dawn reaching rose golden fingers down and around the heavy curtains covering the window.

Dean sat back against the foot of his bed, pulling Sam back with him, between his outstretched legs, against his chest. Dean let out a shuddering sigh of relief, his cheeks still wet with tears, and he stroked his younger brother’s hair, showering his head with small, desperate kisses.

*

Dean used a warm wet rag to wash the drying blood from Sam’s face and hands, then helped him change his clothes, trying not to worry about the mosaic of blood and dark bruises covering his body. He could check him out later. Right now the priority was to get the hell of here before anyone started asking questions. Sam had bled heavily, leaving streaks of bloody footprints behind him. The fetid reek of the Mara stained the air. Dean packed quickly, helped Sam limp out to the car, and drove off into the blossoming morning, grateful to see the sun, and see his brother glowing in the sunlight.

Before heading out of town Dean made a stop at the coffee shack, ready to finish up one last piece of business. He gripped his pistol, on the seat by his side. This would only take a minute.

Sam grabbed his hand gently and shook his head, his chestnut hair swaying softly.

“Let me,” he said.

Sam felt relieved as he approached the shack. It was just a building now, no longer the lair of a monster, no longer radiating a heady sense of violation and dread. Sam knocked tentatively at the small door. Only silence responded. A sinking feeling rolled through his gut as he put his hand on the door knob. He looked back to the Impala. Dean was watching him in the rearview mirror. Sam took a deep breath and let himself in.

The tiny kitchen was cool and quiet. No coffee was dripping, no milk steaming. Missy lay curled on her side on the floor. Sam rushed to her, his large hand on her small shoulder, and rolled her back. She moved languidly for a moment before settling. She was asleep. For the first time in God knew how long, the petite barista was peacefully asleep. Sam slipped out of his jacket and covered her, keeping her warm from the morning chill so that she might sleep comfortably as long as she needed. Sam exited quietly, returned to his brother with a distinct limp and the shallow breaths that told tales of broken ribs and bruised vertebrae.

Dean looked to his brother when he returned, situating himself carefully, bravely masking a constant, full body ache. Dean was concerned, anxious, and even afraid. So much had happened here. So much that could never be unsaid or undone.

Sam looked into Dean’s eyes, the steely glint of warm summer green stirring something deep in his chest. He cleared his throat.

“She’s sleeping,” he said. “Just sleeping.” He instinctively half-smiled, triumphant yet hesitant. Dean was scowling, searching Sam’s eyes, looking for something.

Dean looked for answers in Sam’s eyes, somewhere between early autumn leaves and whiskey by firelight, for his sign that Sam was his, and would remain by his side come Heaven or Hell or any shitstorm in between.

Sam took his chance, reaching for his brother as he slid across the seat, cupping the base of skull. Without hesitation he met Dean’s lips with his own. His kiss was soft but unyielding. He was making his choice, choosing Dean over anything or anyone in the world, and he wanted Dean to feel it down to his soul.

Dean returned his brother’s kiss, pushing his fingers through Sam’s matted hair, drawing him closer.

Eventually their lips parted, though their grip on each other remained.

“I got you,” Sam whispered, then kissed Dean again. “You’re ok.” Kiss. “I love you.” Kiss. “I’m here.” Kiss. “I’ll never leave you.” Kiss.

The moment passed. Sam slid back to shotgun, running his hand across Dean’s shoulder, down his arm, finally coming to rest on his hand. It was a simple gesture, warm and comforting, one taken for granted by so many, yet to Dean it meant the world.

Dean squeezed Sam’s hand, gunned the engine.

The wayward sons carried on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave comments, I love seeing how you feel about the story. This one has been my baby, and I'm so glad to see it finally completed. There are more works coming :)


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